The Mysteries of Udolpho

Contents

Fate sits on these dark battlements, and frowns,
And, as the portals open to receive me,
Her voice, in sullen echoes through the courts,
Tells of a nameless deed.

VOLUME 1

CHAPTER I

home is the resort
Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,
Supporting and supported, polish’d friends
And dear relations mingle into bliss.
                    THOMSON

On the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of Gascony, stood, in the
year 1584, the château of Monsieur St. Aubert. From its windows were seen the
pastoral landscapes of Guienne and Gascony stretching along the river, gay with
luxuriant woods and vine, and plantations of olives. To the south, the view was
bounded by the majestic Pyrenees, whose summits, veiled in clouds, or
exhibiting awful forms, seen, and lost again, as the partial vapours rolled
along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and
sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy pine, that swept downward to their
base. These tremendous precipices were contrasted by the soft green of the
pastures and woods that hung upon their skirts; among whose flocks, and herds,
and simple cottages, the eye, after having scaled the cliffs above, delighted
to repose. To the north, and to the east, the plains of Guienne and Languedoc
were lost in the mist of distance; on the west, Gascony was bounded by the
waters of Biscay.

M. St. Aubert loved to wander, with his wife and daughter, on the margin of the
Garonne, and to listen to the music that floated on its waves. He had known
life in other forms than those of pastoral simplicity, having mingled in the
gay and in the busy scenes of the world; but the flattering portrait of
mankind, which his heart had delineated in early youth, his experience had too
sorrowfully corrected. Yet, amidst the changing visions of life, his principles
remained unshaken, his benevolence unchilled; and he retired from the multitude
“more in pity than in anger,” to scenes of simple nature, to
the pure delights of literature, and to the exercise of domestic virtues.

He was a descendant from the younger branch of an illustrious family, and it
was designed, that the deficiency of his patrimonial wealth should be supplied
either by a splendid alliance in marriage, or by success in the intrigues of
public affairs. But St. Aubert had too nice a sense of honour to fulfil the
latter hope, and too small a portion of ambition to sacrifice what he called
happiness, to the attainment of wealth. After the death of his father he
married a very amiable woman, his equal in birth, and not his superior in
fortune. The late Monsieur St. Aubert’s liberality, or extravagance, had
so much involved his affairs, that his son found it necessary to dispose of a
part of the family domain, and, some years after his marriage, he sold it to
Monsieur Quesnel, the brother of his wife, and retired to a small estate in
Gascony, where conjugal felicity, and parental duties, divided his attention
with the treasures of knowledge and the illuminations of genius.

To this spot he had been attached from his infancy. He had often made
excursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of delight given to his mind
by the homely kindness of the grey-headed peasant, to whom it was intrusted,
and whose fruit and cream never failed, had not been obliterated by succeeding
circumstances. The green pastures along which he had so often bounded in the
exultation of health, and youthful freedom—the woods, under whose
refreshing shade he had first indulged that pensive melancholy, which
afterwards made a strong feature of his character—the wild walks of the
mountains, the river, on whose waves he had floated, and the distant plains,
which seemed boundless as his early hopes—were never after remembered by
St. Aubert but with enthusiasm and regret. At length he disengaged himself from
the world, and retired hither, to realise the wishes of many years.

The building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage, rendered
interesting to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty of the
surrounding scene; and considerable additions were necessary to make it a
comfortable family residence. St. Aubert felt a kind of affection for every
part of the fabric, which he remembered in his youth, and would not suffer a
stone of it to be removed, so that the new building, adapted to the style of
the old one, formed with it only a simple and elegant residence. The taste of
Madame St. Aubert was conspicuous in its internal finishing, where the same
chaste simplicity was observable in the furniture, and in the few ornaments of
the apartments, that characterised the manners of its inhabitants.

The library occupied the west side of the château, and was enriched by a
collection of the best books in the ancient and modern languages. This room
opened upon a grove, which stood on the brow of a gentle declivity, that fell
towards the river, and the tall trees gave it a melancholy and pleasing shade;
while from the windows the eye caught, beneath the spreading branches, the gay
and luxuriant landscape stretching to the west, and overlooked on the left by
the bold precipices of the Pyrenees. Adjoining the library was a green-house,
stored with scarce and beautiful plants; for one of the amusements of St.
Aubert was the study of botany, and among the neighbouring mountains, which
afforded a luxurious feast to the mind of the naturalist, he often passed the
day in the pursuit of his favourite science. He was sometimes accompanied in
these little excursions by Madame St. Aubert, and frequently by his daughter;
when, with a small osier basket to receive plants, and another filled with cold
refreshments, such as the cabin of the shepherd did not afford, they wandered
away among the most romantic and magnificent scenes, nor suffered the charms of
Nature’s lowly children to abstract them from the observance of her
stupendous works. When weary of sauntering among cliffs that seemed scarcely
accessible but to the steps of the enthusiast, and where no track appeared on
the vegetation, but what the foot of the izard had left; they would seek one of
those green recesses, which so beautifully adorn the bosom of these mountains,
where, under the shade of the lofty larch, or cedar, they enjoyed their simple
repast, made sweeter by the waters of the cool stream, that crept along the
turf, and by the breath of wild flowers and aromatic plants, that fringed the
rocks, and inlaid the grass.

Adjoining the eastern side of the green-house, looking towards the plains of
Languedoc, was a room, which Emily called hers, and which contained her books,
her drawings, her musical instruments, with some favourite birds and plants.
Here she usually exercised herself in elegant arts, cultivated only because
they were congenial to her taste, and in which native genius, assisted by the
instructions of Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert, made her an early proficient.
The windows of this room were particularly pleasant; they descended to the
floor, and, opening upon the little lawn that surrounded the house, the eye was
led between groves of almond, palm-trees, flowering-ash, and myrtle, to the
distant landscape, where the Garonne wandered.

The peasants of this gay climate were often seen on an evening, when the
day’s labour was done, dancing in groups on the margin of the river.
Their sprightly melodies, debonnaire steps, the fanciful figure of their
dances, with the tasteful and capricious manner in which the girls adjusted
their simple dress, gave a character to the scene entirely French.

The front of the château, which, having a southern aspect, opened upon the
grandeur of the mountains, was occupied on the ground floor by a rustic hall,
and two excellent sitting rooms. The first floor, for the cottage had no second
story, was laid out in bed-chambers, except one apartment that opened to a
balcony, and which was generally used for a breakfast-room.

In the surrounding ground, St. Aubert had made very tasteful improvements; yet,
such was his attachment to objects he had remembered from his boyish days, that
he had in some instances sacrificed taste to sentiment. There were two old
larches that shaded the building, and interrupted the prospect; St. Aubert had
sometimes declared that he believed he should have been weak enough to have
wept at their fall. In addition to these larches he planted a little grove of
beech, pine, and mountain-ash. On a lofty terrace, formed by the swelling bank
of the river, rose a plantation of orange, lemon, and palm-trees, whose fruit,
in the coolness of evening, breathed delicious fragrance. With these were
mingled a few trees of other species. Here, under the ample shade of a
plane-tree, that spread its majestic canopy towards the river, St. Aubert loved
to sit in the fine evenings of summer, with his wife and children, watching,
beneath its foliage, the setting sun, the mild splendour of its light fading
from the distant landscape, till the shadows of twilight melted its various
features into one tint of sober grey. Here, too, he loved to read, and to
converse with Madame St. Aubert; or to play with his children, resigning
himself to the influence of those sweet affections, which are ever attendant on
simplicity and nature. He has often said, while tears of pleasure trembled in
his eyes, that these were moments infinitely more delightful than any passed
amid the brilliant and tumultuous scenes that are courted by the world. His
heart was occupied; it had, what can be so rarely said, no wish for a happiness
beyond what it experienced. The consciousness of acting right diffused a
serenity over his manners, which nothing else could impart to a man of moral
perceptions like his, and which refined his sense of every surrounding
blessing.

The deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favourite plane-tree.
He loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of light die away; when the
stars, one by one, tremble through æther, and are reflected on the dark mirror
of the waters; that hour, which, of all others, inspires the mind with pensive
tenderness, and often elevates it to sublime contemplation. When the moon shed
her soft rays among the foliage, he still lingered, and his pastoral supper of
cream and fruits was often spread beneath it. Then, on the stillness of night,
came the song of the nightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening
melancholy.

The first interruptions to the happiness he had known since his retirement,
were occasioned by the death of his two sons. He lost them at that age when
infantine simplicity is so fascinating; and though, in consideration of Madame
St. Aubert’s distress, he restrained the expression of his own, and
endeavoured to bear it, as he meant, with philosophy, he had, in truth, no
philosophy that could render him calm to such losses. One daughter was now his
only surviving child; and, while he watched the unfolding of her infant
character, with anxious fondness, he endeavoured, with unremitting effort, to
counteract those traits in her disposition, which might hereafter lead her from
happiness. She had discovered in her early years uncommon delicacy of mind,
warm affections, and ready benevolence; but with these was observable a degree
of susceptibility too exquisite to admit of lasting peace. As she advanced in
youth, this sensibility gave a pensive tone to her spirits, and a softness to
her manner, which added grace to beauty, and rendered her a very interesting
object to persons of a congenial disposition. But St. Aubert had too much good
sense to prefer a charm to a virtue; and had penetration enough to see, that
this charm was too dangerous to its possessor to be allowed the character of a
blessing. He endeavoured, therefore, to strengthen her mind; to enure her to
habits of self-command; to teach her to reject the first impulse of her
feelings, and to look, with cool examination, upon the disappointments he
sometimes threw in her way. While he instructed her to resist first
impressions, and to acquire that steady dignity of mind, that can alone
counterbalance the passions, and bear us, as far as is compatible with our
nature, above the reach of circumstances, he taught himself a lesson of
fortitude; for he was often obliged to witness, with seeming indifference, the
tears and struggles which his caution occasioned her.

In person, Emily resembled her mother; having the same elegant symmetry of
form, the same delicacy of features, and the same blue eyes, full of tender
sweetness. But, lovely as was her person, it was the varied expression of her
countenance, as conversation awakened the nicer emotions of her mind, that
threw such a captivating grace around her:

Those tend’rer tints, that shun the careless eye,
And, in the world’s contagious circle, die.

St. Aubert cultivated her understanding with the most scrupulous care. He gave
her a general view of the sciences, and an exact acquaintance with every part
of elegant literature. He taught her Latin and English, chiefly that she might
understand the sublimity of their best poets. She discovered in her early years
a taste for works of genius; and it was St. Aubert’s principle, as well
as his inclination, to promote every innocent means of happiness. “A
well-informed mind,” he would say, “is the best security against
the contagion of folly and of vice. The vacant mind is ever on the watch for
relief, and ready to plunge into error, to escape from the languor of idleness.
Store it with ideas, teach it the pleasure of thinking; and the temptations of
the world without, will be counteracted by the gratifications derived from the
world within. Thought, and cultivation, are necessary equally to the happiness
of a country and a city life; in the first they prevent the uneasy sensations
of indolence, and afford a sublime pleasure in the taste they create for the
beautiful, and the grand; in the latter, they make dissipation less an object
of necessity, and consequently of interest.”

It was one of Emily’s earliest pleasures to ramble among the scenes of
nature; nor was it in the soft and glowing landscape that she most delighted;
she loved more the wild wood-walks, that skirted the mountain; and still more
the mountain’s stupendous recesses, where the silence and grandeur of
solitude impressed a sacred awe upon her heart, and lifted her thoughts to the
GOD OF HEAVEN AND EARTH. In scenes like these she would often linger along,
wrapt in a melancholy charm, till the last gleam of day faded from the west;
till the lonely sound of a sheep-bell, or the distant bark of a watch-dog, were
all that broke on the stillness of the evening. Then, the gloom of the woods;
the trembling of their leaves, at intervals, in the breeze; the bat, flitting
on the twilight; the cottage-lights, now seen, and now lost—were
circumstances that awakened her mind into effort, and led to enthusiasm and
poetry.

Her favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St. Aubert, in a
woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet that descended from the Pyrenees, and,
after foaming among their rocks, wound its silent way beneath the shades it
reflected. Above the woods, that screened this glen, rose the lofty summits of
the Pyrenees, which often burst boldly on the eye through the glades below.
Sometimes the shattered face of a rock only was seen, crowned with wild shrubs;
or a shepherd’s cabin seated on a cliff, overshadowed by dark cypress, or
waving ash. Emerging from the deep recesses of the woods, the glade opened to
the distant landscape, where the rich pastures and vine-covered slopes of
Gascony gradually declined to the plains; and there, on the winding shores of
the Garonne, groves, and hamlets, and villas—their outlines softened by
distance, melted from the eye into one rich harmonious tint.

This, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which he frequently
withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his daughter, and his books;
or came at the sweet evening hour to welcome the silent dusk, or to listen for
the music of the nightingale. Sometimes, too, he brought music of his own, and
awakened every fairy echo with the tender accents of his oboe; and often have
the tones of Emily’s voice drawn sweetness from the waves, over which
they trembled.

It was in one of these excursions to this spot, that she observed the following
lines written with a pencil on a part of the wainscot:

SONNET

Go, pencil! faithful to thy master’s sighs!
Go—tell the Goddess of the fairy scene,
When next her light steps wind these wood-walks green,
Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise;
Ah! paint her form, her soul-illumin’d eyes,
The sweet expression of her pensive face,
The light’ning smile, the animated grace—
The portrait well the lover’s voice supplies;
Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say:
Yet ah! not all his heart must sadly feel!
How oft the flow’ret’s silken leaves conceal
The drug that steals the vital spark away!
And who that gazes on that angel-smile,
Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile!

These lines were not inscribed to any person; Emily therefore could not apply
them to herself, though she was undoubtedly the nymph of these shades. Having
glanced round the little circle of her acquaintance without being detained by a
suspicion as to whom they could be addressed, she was compelled to rest in
uncertainty; an uncertainty which would have been more painful to an idle mind
than it was to hers. She had no leisure to suffer this circumstance, trifling
at first, to swell into importance by frequent remembrance. The little vanity
it had excited (for the incertitude which forbade her to presume upon having
inspired the sonnet, forbade her also to disbelieve it) passed away, and the
incident was dismissed from her thoughts amid her books, her studies, and the
exercise of social charities.

Soon after this period, her anxiety was awakened by the indisposition of her
father, who was attacked with a fever; which, though not thought to be of a
dangerous kind, gave a severe shock to his constitution. Madame St. Aubert and
Emily attended him with unremitting care; but his recovery was very slow, and,
as he advanced towards health, Madame seemed to decline.

The first scene he visited, after he was well enough to take the air, was his
favourite fishing-house. A basket of provisions was sent thither, with books,
and Emily’s lute; for fishing-tackle he had no use, for he never could
find amusement in torturing or destroying.

After employing himself, for about an hour, in botanizing, dinner was served.
It was a repast, to which gratitude, for being again permitted to visit this
spot, gave sweetness; and family happiness once more smiled beneath these
shades. Monsieur St. Aubert conversed with unusual cheerfulness; every object
delighted his senses. The refreshing pleasure from the first view of nature,
after the pain of illness, and the confinement of a sick-chamber, is above the
conceptions, as well as the descriptions, of those in health. The green woods
and pastures; the flowery turf; the blue concave of the heavens; the balmy air;
the murmur of the limpid stream; and even the hum of every little insect of the
shade, seem to revivify the soul, and make mere existence bliss.

Madame St. Aubert, reanimated by the cheerfulness and recovery of her husband,
was no longer sensible of the indisposition which had lately oppressed her;
and, as she sauntered along the wood-walks of this romantic glen, and conversed
with him, and with her daughter, she often looked at them alternately with a
degree of tenderness, that filled her eyes with tears. St. Aubert observed this
more than once, and gently reproved her for the emotion; but she could only
smile, clasp his hand, and that of Emily, and weep the more. He felt the tender
enthusiasm stealing upon himself in a degree that became almost painful; his
features assumed a serious air, and he could not forbear secretly
sighing—“Perhaps I shall some time look back to these moments, as
to the summit of my happiness, with hopeless regret. But let me not misuse them
by useless anticipation; let me hope I shall not live to mourn the loss of
those who are dearer to me than life.”

To relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pensive temper of his mind, he bade
Emily fetch the lute she knew how to touch with such sweet pathos. As she drew
near the fishing-house, she was surprised to hear the tones of the instrument,
which were awakened by the hand of taste, and uttered a plaintive air, whose
exquisite melody engaged all her attention. She listened in profound silence,
afraid to move from the spot, lest the sound of her steps should occasion her
to lose a note of the music, or should disturb the musician. Everything
without the building was still, and no person appeared. She continued to
listen, till timidity succeeded to surprise and delight; a timidity, increased
by a remembrance of the pencilled lines she had formerly seen, and she
hesitated whether to proceed, or to return.

While she paused, the music ceased; and, after a momentary hesitation, she
recollected courage to advance to the fishing-house, which she entered with
faltering steps, and found unoccupied! Her lute lay on the table; everything
seemed undisturbed, and she began to believe it was another instrument she had
heard, till she remembered, that, when she followed M. and Madame St. Aubert
from this spot, her lute was left on a window seat. She felt alarmed, yet knew
not wherefore; the melancholy gloom of evening, and the profound stillness of
the place, interrupted only by the light trembling of leaves, heightened her
fanciful apprehensions, and she was desirous of quitting the building, but
perceived herself grow faint, and sat down. As she tried to recover herself,
the pencilled lines on the wainscot met her eye; she started, as if she had
seen a stranger; but, endeavouring to conquer the tremor of her spirits, rose,
and went to the window. To the lines before noticed she now perceived that
others were added, in which her name appeared.

Though no longer suffered to doubt that they were addressed to herself, she was
as ignorant, as before, by whom they could be written. While she mused, she
thought she heard the sound of a step without the building, and again alarmed,
she caught up her lute, and hurried away. Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert she
found in a little path that wound along the sides of the glen.

Having reached a green summit, shadowed by palm-trees, and overlooking the
valleys and plains of Gascony, they seated themselves on the turf; and while
their eyes wandered over the glorious scene, and they inhaled the sweet breath
of flowers and herbs that enriched the grass, Emily played and sung several of
their favourite airs, with the delicacy of expression in which she so much
excelled.

Music and conversation detained them in this enchanting spot, till the
sun’s last light slept upon the plains; till the white sails that glided
beneath the mountains, where the Garonne wandered, became dim, and the gloom of
evening stole over the landscape. It was a melancholy but not unpleasing gloom.
St. Aubert and his family rose, and left the place with regret; alas! Madame
St. Aubert knew not that she left it for ever.

When they reached the fishing-house she missed her bracelet, and recollected
that she had taken it from her arm after dinner, and had left it on the table
when she went to walk. After a long search, in which Emily was very active, she
was compelled to resign herself to the loss of it. What made this bracelet
valuable to her was a miniature of her daughter to which it was attached,
esteemed a striking resemblance, and which had been painted only a few months
before. When Emily was convinced that the bracelet was really gone, she
blushed, and became thoughtful. That some stranger had been in the
fishing-house, during her absence, her lute, and the additional lines of a
pencil, had already informed her: from the purport of these lines it was not
unreasonable to believe, that the poet, the musician, and the thief were the
same person. But though the music she had heard, the written lines she had
seen, and the disappearance of the picture, formed a combination of
circumstances very remarkable, she was irresistibly restrained from mentioning
them; secretly determining, however, never again to visit the fishing-house
without Monsieur or Madame St. Aubert.

They returned pensively to the château, Emily musing on the incident which had
just occurred; St. Aubert reflecting, with placid gratitude, on the blessings
he possessed; and Madame St. Aubert somewhat disturbed, and perplexed, by the
loss of her daughter’s picture. As they drew near the house, they
observed an unusual bustle about it; the sound of voices was distinctly heard,
servants and horses were seen passing between the trees, and, at length, the
wheels of a carriage rolled along. Having come within view of the front of the
château, a landau, with smoking horses, appeared on the little lawn before it.
St. Aubert perceived the liveries of his brother-in-law, and in the parlour he
found Monsieur and Madame Quesnel already entered. They had left Paris some
days before, and were on the way to their estate, only ten leagues distant from
La Vallée, and which Monsieur Quesnel had purchased several years before of St.
Aubert. This gentleman was the only brother of Madame St. Aubert; but the ties
of relationship having never been strengthened by congeniality of character,
the intercourse between them had not been frequent. M. Quesnel had lived
altogether in the world; his aim had been consequence; splendour was the object
of his taste; and his address and knowledge of character had carried him
forward to the attainment of almost all that he had courted. By a man of such a
disposition, it is not surprising that the virtues of St. Aubert should be
overlooked; or that his pure taste, simplicity, and moderated wishes, were
considered as marks of a weak intellect, and of confined views. The marriage of
his sister with St. Aubert had been mortifying to his ambition, for he had
designed that the matrimonial connection she formed should assist him to attain
the consequence which he so much desired; and some offers were made her by
persons whose rank and fortune flattered his warmest hope. But his sister, who
was then addressed also by St. Aubert, perceived, or thought she perceived,
that happiness and splendour were not the same, and she did not hesitate to
forego the last for the attainment of the former. Whether Monsieur Quesnel
thought them the same, or not, he would readily have sacrificed his
sister’s peace to the gratification of his own ambition; and, on her
marriage with St. Aubert, expressed in private his contempt of her spiritless
conduct, and of the connection which it permitted. Madame St. Aubert, though
she concealed this insult from her husband, felt, perhaps, for the first time,
resentment lighted in her heart; and, though a regard for her own dignity,
united with considerations of prudence, restrained her expression of this
resentment, there was ever after a mild reserve in her manner towards M.
Quesnel, which he both understood and felt.

In his own marriage he did not follow his sister’s example. His lady was
an Italian, and an heiress by birth; and, by nature and education, was a vain
and frivolous woman.

They now determined to pass the night with St. Aubert; and as the château was
not large enough to accommodate their servants, the latter were dismissed to
the neighbouring village. When the first compliments were over, and the
arrangements for the night made M. Quesnel began the display of his
intelligence and his connections; while St. Aubert, who had been long enough in
retirement to find these topics recommended by their novelty, listened, with a
degree of patience and attention, which his guest mistook for the humility of
wonder. The latter, indeed, described the few festivities which the turbulence
of that period permitted to the court of Henry the Third, with a minuteness,
that somewhat recompensed for his ostentation; but, when he came to speak of
the character of the Duke de Joyeuse, of a secret treaty, which he knew to be
negotiating with the Porte, and of the light in which Henry of Navarre was
received, M. St. Aubert recollected enough of his former experience to be
assured, that his guest could be only of an inferior class of politicians; and
that, from the importance of the subjects upon which he committed himself, he
could not be of the rank to which he pretended to belong. The opinions
delivered by M. Quesnel, were such as St. Aubert forebore to reply to, for he
knew that his guest had neither humanity to feel, nor discernment to perceive,
what is just.

Madame Quesnel, meanwhile, was expressing to Madame St. Aubert her
astonishment, that she could bear to pass her life in this remote corner of the
world, as she called it, and describing, from a wish, probably, of exciting
envy, the splendour of the balls, banquets, and processions which had just been
given by the court, in honour of the nuptials of the Duke de Joyeuse with
Margaretta of Lorrain, the sister of the Queen. She described with equal
minuteness the magnificence she had seen, and that from which she had been
excluded; while Emily’s vivid fancy, as she listened with the ardent
curiosity of youth, heightened the scenes she heard of; and Madame St. Aubert,
looking on her family, felt, as a tear stole to her eye, that though splendour
may grace happiness, virtue only can bestow it.

“It is now twelve years, St. Aubert,” said M. Quesnel, “since
I purchased your family estate.”—“Somewhere
thereabout,” replied St. Aubert, suppressing a sigh. “It is near
five years since I have been there,” resumed Quesnel; “for Paris
and its neighbourhood is the only place in the world to live in, and I am so
immersed in politics, and have so many affairs of moment on my hands, that I
find it difficult to steal away even for a month or two.” St. Aubert
remaining silent, M. Quesnel proceeded: “I have sometimes wondered how
you, who have lived in the capital, and have been accustomed to company, can
exist elsewhere;—especially in so remote a country as this, where you can
neither hear nor see anything, and can in short be scarcely conscious of
life.”

“I live for my family and myself,” said St. Aubert; “I am now
contented to know only happiness;—formerly I knew life.”

“I mean to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements,”
said M. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert; “for
I design, next summer, to bring here my friends, the Duke de Durefort and the
Marquis Ramont, to pass a month or two with me.” To St. Aubert’s
enquiry, as to these intended improvements, he replied, that he should take
down the whole east wing of the château, and raise upon the site a set of
stables. “Then I shall build,” said he, “a salle à
manger, a salon, a salle au commune, and a number of rooms
for servants; for at present there is not accommodation for a third part of my
own people.”

“It accommodated our father’s household,” said St. Aubert,
grieved that the old mansion was to be thus improved, “and that was not a
small one.”

“Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,” said M.
Quesnel;—“what was then thought a decent style of living would not
now be endured.” Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words, but his
anger soon yielded to contempt. “The ground about the château is
encumbered with trees; I mean to cut some of them down.”

“Cut down the trees too!” said St. Aubert.

“Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects. There is a
chesnut which spreads its branches before the whole south side of the château,
and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of its trunk will hold a
dozen men. Your enthusiasm will scarcely contend that there can be either use,
or beauty, in such a sapless old tree as this.”

“Good God!” exclaimed St. Aubert, “you surely will not
destroy that noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of
the estate! It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built. How
often, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and sat embowered
amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has pattered above, and not a
rain drop reached me! How often I have sat with a book in my hand, sometimes
reading, and sometimes looking out between the branches upon the wide
landscape, and the setting sun, till twilight came, and brought the birds home
to their little nests among the leaves! How often—but pardon me,”
added St. Aubert, recollecting that he was speaking to a man who could neither
comprehend, nor allow his feelings, “I am talking of times and feelings
as old-fashioned as the taste that would spare that venerable tree.”

“It will certainly come down,” said M. Quesnel; “I believe I
shall plant some Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall
leave of the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells me how
much it adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from Venice.”

“On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,” continued St. Aubert,
“where its spiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and
where it plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it,
unquestionably, adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest, and near
a heavy gothic mansion—”

“Well, my good sir,” said M. Quesnel, “I will not dispute
with you. You must return to Paris before our ideas can at all agree. But à
propos of Venice, I have some thoughts of going thither, next summer;
events may call me to take possession of that same villa, too, which they tell
me is the most charming that can be imagined. In that case I shall leave the
improvements I mention to another year, and I may, perhaps, be tempted to stay
some time in Italy.”

Emily was somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being tempted to remain
abroad, after he had mentioned his presence to be so necessary at Paris, that
it was with difficulty he could steal away for a month or two; but St. Aubert
understood the self-importance of the man too well to wonder at this trait; and
the possibility, that these projected improvements might be deferred, gave him
a hope, that they might never take place.

Before they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to speak with St.
Aubert alone, and they retired to another room, where they remained a
considerable time. The subject of this conversation was not known; but,
whatever it might be, St. Aubert, when he returned to the supper-room, seemed
much disturbed, and a shade of sorrow sometimes fell upon his features that
alarmed Madame St. Aubert. When they were alone she was tempted to enquire the
occasion of it, but the delicacy of mind, which had ever appeared in his
conduct, restrained her: she considered that, if St. Aubert wished her to be
acquainted with the subject of his concern, he would not wait on her enquiries.

On the following day, before M. Quesnel departed, he had a second conference
with St. Aubert.

The guests, after dining at the château, set out in the cool of the day for
Epourville, whither they gave him and Madame St. Aubert a pressing invitation,
prompted rather by the vanity of displaying their splendour, than by a wish to
make their friends happy.

Emily returned, with delight, to the liberty which their presence had
restrained, to her books, her walks, and the rational conversation of M. and
Madame St. Aubert, who seemed to rejoice, no less, that they were delivered
from the shackles, which arrogance and frivolity had imposed.

Madame St. Aubert excused herself from sharing their usual evening walk,
complaining that she was not quite well, and St. Aubert and Emily went out
together.

They chose a walk towards the mountains, intending to visit some old pensioners
of St. Aubert, which, from his very moderate income, he contrived to support,
though it is probable M. Quesnel, with his very large one, could not have
afforded this.

After distributing to his pensioners their weekly stipends, listening patiently
to the complaints of some, redressing the grievances of others, and softening
the discontents of all, by the look of sympathy, and the smile of benevolence,
St. Aubert returned home through the woods,

where,
At fall of eve the fairy-people throng,
In various games and revelry to pass
The summer night, as village stories tell.
                    THOMSON

“The evening gloom of woods was always delightful to me,” said St.
Aubert, whose mind now experienced the sweet calm, which results from the
consciousness of having done a beneficent action, and which disposes it to
receive pleasure from every surrounding object. “I remember that in my
youth this gloom used to call forth to my fancy a thousand fairy visions, and
romantic images; and, I own, I am not yet wholly insensible of that high
enthusiasm, which wakes the poet’s dream: I can linger, with solemn
steps, under the deep shades, send forward a transforming eye into the distant
obscurity, and listen with thrilling delight to the mystic murmuring of the
woods.”

“O my dear father,” said Emily, while a sudden tear started to her
eye, “how exactly you describe what I have felt so often, and which I
thought nobody had ever felt but myself! But hark! here comes the sweeping
sound over the wood-tops;—now it dies away;—how solemn the
stillness that succeeds! Now the breeze swells again. It is like the voice of
some supernatural being—the voice of the spirit of the woods, that
watches over them by night. Ah! what light is yonder? But it is gone. And now
it gleams again, near the root of that large chestnut: look, sir!”

“Are you such an admirer of nature,” said St. Aubert, “and so
little acquainted with her appearances as not to know that for the glow-worm?
But come,” added he gaily, “step a little further, and we shall see
fairies, perhaps; they are often companions. The glow-worm lends his light, and
they in return charm him with music, and the dance. Do you see nothing tripping
yonder?”

Emily laughed. “Well, my dear sir,” said she, “since you
allow of this alliance, I may venture to own I have anticipated you; and almost
dare venture to repeat some verses I made one evening in these very
woods.”

“Nay,” replied St. Aubert, “dismiss the almost, and
venture quite; let us hear what vagaries fancy has been playing in your mind.
If she has given you one of her spells, you need not envy those of the
fairies.”

“If it is strong enough to enchant your judgment, sir,” said Emily,
“while I disclose her images, I need not envy them. The lines go
in a sort of tripping measure, which I thought might suit the subject well
enough, but I fear they are too irregular.”

THE GLOW-WORM.

How pleasant is the green-wood’s deep-matted shade
On a mid-summer’s eve, when the fresh rain is o’er;
When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro’ the glade,
And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar!

But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest,
And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay
Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow’rs, unprest,
Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.

To music’s softest sounds they dance away the hour,
Till moonlight steals down among the trembling leaves,
And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow’r,
The long haunted bow’r, where the nightingale grieves.

Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done,
But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend;
And often as her dying notes their pity have won,
They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend.

When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev’ning star,
And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere,
How cheerless would they be, tho’ they fairies are,
If I, with my pale light, came not near!

Yet cheerless tho’ they’d be, they’re ungrateful to my
love!
For, often when the traveller’s benighted on his way,
And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him thro’ the grove,
They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray;

And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out,
While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground,
And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout,
Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the sound!

But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the horn,
And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string;
Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn.

Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy-queen,
Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me,
That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy green,
To seek the purple flow’r, whose juice from all her spells can free.

And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute;
If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand,
And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute.

O! had I but that purple flow’r whose leaves her charms can foil,
And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind,
I’d be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile,
And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind!

But soon the vapour of the woods will wander afar,
And the fickle moon will fade, and the stars disappear,
Then, cheerless will they be, tho’ they fairies are,
If I, with my pale light, come not near!

Whatever St. Aubert might think of the stanzas, he would not deny his daughter
the pleasure of believing that he approved them; and, having given his
commendation, he sunk into a reverie, and they walked on in silence.

A faint erroneous ray,
Glanc’d from th’ imperfect surfaces of things,
Flung half an image on the straining eye;
While waving woods, and villages, and streams,
And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retain
The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene,
Uncertain if beheld.
                    THOMSON.

St. Aubert continued silent till he reached the château, where his wife had
retired to her chamber. The languor and dejection, that had lately oppressed
her, and which the exertion called forth by the arrival of her guests had
suspended, now returned with increased effect. On the following day, symptoms
of fever appeared, and St. Aubert, having sent for medical advice, learned,
that her disorder was a fever of the same nature as that, from which he had
lately recovered. She had, indeed, taken the infection, during her attendance
upon him, and, her constitution being too weak to throw out the disease
immediately, it had lurked in her veins, and occasioned the heavy languor of
which she had complained. St. Aubert, whose anxiety for his wife overcame every
other consideration, detained the physician in his house. He remembered the
feelings and the reflections that had called a momentary gloom upon his mind,
on the day when he had last visited the fishing-house, in company with Madame
St. Aubert, and he now admitted a presentiment, that this illness would be a
fatal one. But he effectually concealed this from her, and from his daughter,
whom he endeavoured to reanimate with hopes that her constant assiduities
would not be unavailing. The physician, when asked by St. Aubert for his
opinion of the disorder, replied, that the event of it depended upon
circumstances which he could not ascertain. Madame St. Aubert seemed to have
formed a more decided one; but her eyes only gave hints of this. She frequently
fixed them upon her anxious friends with an expression of pity, and of
tenderness, as if she anticipated the sorrow that awaited them, and that seemed
to say, it was for their sakes only, for their sufferings, that she regretted
life. On the seventh day, the disorder was at its crisis. The physician assumed
a graver manner, which she observed, and took occasion, when her family had
once quitted the chamber, to tell him, that she perceived her death was
approaching. “Do not attempt to deceive me,” said she, “I
feel that I cannot long survive. I am prepared for the event, I have long, I
hope, been preparing for it. Since I have not long to live, do not suffer a
mistaken compassion to induce you to flatter my family with false hopes. If you
do, their affliction will only be the heavier when it arrives: I will endeavour
to teach them resignation by my example.”

The physician was affected; he promised to obey her, and told St. Aubert,
somewhat abruptly, that there was nothing to expect. The latter was not
philosopher enough to restrain his feelings when he received this information;
but a consideration of the increased affliction which the observance of his
grief would occasion his wife, enabled him, after some time, to command himself
in her presence. Emily was at first overwhelmed with the intelligence; then,
deluded by the strength of her wishes, a hope sprung up in her mind that her
mother would yet recover, and to this she pertinaciously adhered almost to the
last hour.

The progress of this disorder was marked, on the side of Madame St. Aubert, by
patient suffering, and subjected wishes. The composure, with which she awaited
her death, could be derived only from the retrospect of a life governed, as far
as human frailty permits, by a consciousness of being always in the presence of
the Deity, and by the hope of a higher world. But her piety could not entirely
subdue the grief of parting from those whom she so dearly loved. During these
her last hours, she conversed much with St. Aubert and Emily, on the prospect
of futurity, and on other religious topics. The resignation she expressed, with
the firm hope of meeting in a future world the friends she left in this, and
the effort which sometimes appeared to conceal her sorrow at this temporary
separation, frequently affected St. Aubert so much as to oblige him to leave
the room. Having indulged his tears a while, he would dry them and return to
the chamber with a countenance composed by an endeavour which did but increase
his grief.

Never had Emily felt the importance of the lessons, which had taught her to
restrain her sensibility, so much as in these moments, and never had she
practised them with a triumph so complete. But when the last was over, she sunk
at once under the pressure of her sorrow, and then perceived that it was hope,
as well as fortitude, which had hitherto supported her. St. Aubert was for a
time too devoid of comfort himself to bestow any on his daughter.

CHAPTER II

I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul.
                    SHAKESPEARE

Madame St. Aubert was interred in the neighbouring village church; her husband
and daughter attended her to the grave, followed by a long train of the
peasantry, who were sincere mourners of this excellent woman.

On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert shut himself in his chamber. When he
came forth, it was with a serene countenance, though pale in sorrow. He gave
orders that his family should attend him. Emily only was absent; who, overcome
with the scene she had just witnessed, had retired to her closet to weep alone.
St. Aubert followed her thither: he took her hand in silence, while she
continued to weep; and it was some moments before he could so far command his
voice as to speak. It trembled while he said, “My Emily, I am going to
prayers with my family; you will join us. We must ask support from above. Where
else ought we to seek it—where else can we find it?”

Emily checked her tears, and followed her father to the parlour, where, the
servants being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low and solemn voice, the
evening service, and added a prayer for the soul of the departed. During this,
his voice often faltered, his tears fell upon the book, and at length he
paused. But the sublime emotions of pure devotion gradually elevated his views
above this world, and finally brought comfort to his heart.

When the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn, he tenderly kissed
Emily, and said, “I have endeavoured to teach you, from your earliest
youth, the duty of self-command; I have pointed out to you the great importance
of it through life, not only as it preserves us in the various and dangerous
temptations that call us from rectitude and virtue, but as it limits the
indulgences which are termed virtuous, yet which, extended beyond a certain
boundary, are vicious, for their consequence is evil. All excess is vicious;
even that sorrow, which is amiable in its origin, becomes a selfish and unjust
passion, if indulged at the expence of our duties—by our duties I mean
what we owe to ourselves, as well as to others. The indulgence of excessive
grief enervates the mind, and almost incapacitates it for again partaking of
those various innocent enjoyments which a benevolent God designed to be the
sunshine of our lives. My dear Emily, recollect and practise the precepts I
have so often given you, and which your own experience has so often shown you
to be wise.

“Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a commonplace
remark, but let reason therefore restrain sorrow. I would not annihilate
your feelings, my child, I would only teach you to command them; for whatever
may be the evils resulting from a too susceptible heart, nothing can be hoped
from an insensible one; that, on the other hand, is all vice—vice, of
which the deformity is not softened, or the effect consoled for, by any
semblance or possibility of good. You know my sufferings, and are, therefore,
convinced that mine are not the light words which, on these occasions, are so
often repeated to destroy even the sources of honest emotion, or which merely
display the selfish ostentation of a false philosophy. I will show my Emily,
that I can practise what I advise. I have said thus much, because I cannot bear
to see you wasting in useless sorrow, for want of that resistance which is due
from mind; and I have not said it till now, because there is a period when all
reasoning must yield to nature; that is past: and another, when excessive
indulgence, having sunk into habit, weighs down the elasticity of the spirits
so as to render conquest nearly impossible; this is to come. You, my Emily,
will show that you are willing to avoid it.”

Emily smiled through her tears upon her father: “Dear sir,” said
she, and her voice trembled; she would have added, “I will show myself
worthy of being your daughter;” but a mingled emotion of gratitude,
affection, and grief overcame her. St. Aubert suffered her to weep without
interruption, and then began to talk on common topics.

The first person who came to condole with St. Aubert was a M. Barreaux, an
austere and seemingly unfeeling man. A taste for botany had introduced them to
each other, for they had frequently met in their wanderings among the
mountains. M. Barreaux had retired from the world, and almost from society, to
live in a pleasant château, on the skirts of the woods, near La Vallée. He also
had been disappointed in his opinion of mankind; but he did not, like St.
Aubert, pity and mourn for them; he felt more indignation at their vices, than
compassion for their weaknesses.

St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to see him; for, though he had often pressed
him to come to the château, he had never till now accepted the invitation; and
now he came without ceremony or reserve, entering the parlour as an old friend.
The claims of misfortune appeared to have softened down all the ruggedness and
prejudices of his heart. St. Aubert unhappy, seemed to be the sole idea that
occupied his mind. It was in manners, more than in words, that he appeared to
sympathise with his friends: he spoke little on the subject of their grief; but
the minute attention he gave them, and the modulated voice, and softened look
that accompanied it, came from his heart, and spoke to theirs.

At this melancholy period St. Aubert was likewise visited by Madame Cheron, his
only surviving sister, who had been some years a widow, and now resided on her
own estate near Thoulouse. The intercourse between them had not been very
frequent. In her condolements, words were not wanting; she understood not the
magic of the look that speaks at once to the soul, or the voice that sinks like
balm to the heart: but she assured St. Aubert that she sincerely sympathised
with him, praised the virtues of his late wife, and then offered what she
considered to be consolation. Emily wept unceasingly while she spoke; St.
Aubert was tranquil, listened to what she said in silence, and then turned the
discourse upon another subject.

At parting she pressed him and her niece to make her an early visit.
“Change of place will amuse you,” said she, “and it is wrong
to give way to grief.” St. Aubert acknowledged the truth of these words
of course; but, at the same time, felt more reluctant than ever to quit the
spot which his past happiness had consecrated. The presence of his wife had
sanctified every surrounding scene, and, each day, as it gradually softened the
acuteness of his suffering, assisted the tender enchantment that bound him to
home.

But there were calls which must be complied with, and of this kind was the
visit he paid to his brother-in-law M. Quesnel. An affair of an interesting
nature made it necessary that he should delay this visit no longer, and,
wishing to rouse Emily from her dejection, he took her with him to Epourville.

As the carriage entered upon the forest that adjoined his paternal domain, his
eyes once more caught, between the chesnut avenue, the turreted corners of the
château. He sighed to think of what had passed since he was last there, and
that it was now the property of a man who neither revered nor valued it. At
length he entered the avenue, whose lofty trees had so often delighted him when
a boy, and whose melancholy shade was now so congenial with the tone of his
spirits. Every feature of the edifice, distinguished by an air of heavy
grandeur, appeared successively between the branches of the trees—the
broad turret, the arched gateway that led into the courts, the drawbridge, and
the dry fossé which surrounded the whole.

The sound of carriage wheels brought a troop of servants to the great gate,
where St. Aubert alighted, and from which he led Emily into the gothic hall,
now no longer hung with the arms and ancient banners of the family. These were
displaced, and the oak wainscotting, and beams that crossed the roof, were
painted white. The large table, too, that used to stretch along the upper end
of the hall, where the master of the mansion loved to display his hospitality,
and whence the peal of laughter, and the song of conviviality had so often
resounded, was now removed; even the benches that had surrounded the hall were
no longer there. The heavy walls were hung with frivolous ornaments, and
everything that appeared denoted the false taste and corrupted sentiments of
the present owner.

St. Aubert followed a gay Parisian servant to a parlour, where sat Mons. and
Madame Quesnel, who received him with a stately politeness, and, after a few
formal words of condolement, seemed to have forgotten that they ever had a
sister.

Emily felt tears swell into her eyes, and then resentment checked them. St.
Aubert, calm and deliberate, preserved his dignity without assuming importance,
and Quesnel was depressed by his presence without exactly knowing wherefore.

After some general conversation, St. Aubert requested to speak with him alone;
and Emily, being left with Madame Quesnel, soon learned that a large party was
invited to dine at the château, and was compelled to hear that nothing which
was past and irremediable ought to prevent the festivity of the present hour.

St. Aubert, when he was told that company were expected, felt a mixed emotion
of disgust and indignation against the insensibility of Quesnel, which prompted
him to return home immediately. But he was informed, that Madame Cheron had
been asked to meet him; and, when he looked at Emily, and considered that a
time might come when the enmity of her uncle would be prejudicial to her, he
determined not to incur it himself, by conduct which would be resented as
indecorous, by the very persons who now showed so little sense of decorum.

Among the visitors assembled at dinner were two Italian gentlemen, of whom one
was named Montoni, a distant relation of Madame Quesnel, a man about forty, of
an uncommonly handsome person, with features manly and expressive, but whose
countenance exhibited, upon the whole, more of the haughtiness of command, and
the quickness of discernment, than of any other character.

Signor Cavigni, his friend, appeared to be about thirty—inferior in
dignity, but equal to him in penetration of countenance, and superior in
insinuation of manner.

Emily was shocked by the salutation with which Madame Cheron met her
father—“Dear brother,” said she, “I am concerned to see
you look so very ill; do, pray, have advice!” St. Aubert answered, with a
melancholy smile, that he felt himself much as usual; but Emily’s fears
made her now fancy that her father looked worse than he really did.

Emily would have been amused by the new characters she saw, and the varied
conversation that passed during dinner, which was served in a style of
splendour she had seldom seen before, had her spirits been less oppressed. Of
the guests, Signor Montoni was lately come from Italy, and he spoke of the
commotions which at that period agitated the country; talked of party
differences with warmth, and then lamented the probable consequences of the
tumults. His friend spoke with equal ardour, of the politics of his country;
praised the government and prosperity of Venice, and boasted of its decided
superiority over all the other Italian states. He then turned to the ladies,
and talked with the same eloquence, of Parisian fashions, the French opera, and
French manners; and on the latter subject he did not fail to mingle what is so
particularly agreeable to French taste. The flattery was not detected by those
to whom it was addressed, though its effect, in producing submissive attention,
did not escape his observation. When he could disengage himself from the
assiduities of the other ladies, he sometimes addressed Emily: but she knew
nothing of Parisian fashions, or Parisian operas; and her modesty, simplicity,
and correct manners formed a decided contrast to those of her female
companions.

After dinner, St. Aubert stole from the room to view once more the old chesnut
which Quesnel talked of cutting down. As he stood under its shade, and looked
up among its branches, still luxuriant, and saw here and there the blue sky
trembling between them; the pursuits and events of his early days crowded fast
to his mind, with the figures and characters of friends—long since gone
from the earth; and he now felt himself to be almost an insulated being, with
nobody but his Emily for his heart to turn to.

He stood lost amid the scenes of years which fancy called up, till the
succession closed with the picture of his dying wife, and he started away, to
forget it, if possible, at the social board.

St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an early hour, and Emily observed, that he
was more than usually silent and dejected on the way home; but she considered
this to be the effect of his visit to a place which spoke so eloquently of
former times, nor suspected that he had a cause of grief which he concealed
from her.

On entering the château she felt more depressed than ever, for she more than
ever missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenever she had been from
home, used to welcome her return with smiles and fondness; now, all was silent
and forsaken.

But what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects. Week after week passed
away, and each, as it passed, stole something from the harshness of her
affliction, till it was mellowed to that tenderness which the feeling heart
cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert, on the contrary, visibly declined in health;
though Emily, who had been so constantly with him, was almost the last person
who observed it. His constitution had never recovered from the late attack of
the fever, and the succeeding shock it received from Madame St. Aubert’s
death had produced its present infirmity. His physician now ordered him to
travel; for it was perceptible that sorrow had seized upon his nerves, weakened
as they had been by the preceding illness; and variety of scene, it was
probable, would, by amusing his mind, restore them to their proper tone.

For some days Emily was occupied in preparations to attend him; and he, by
endeavours to diminish his expences at home during the journey—a purpose
which determined him at length to dismiss his domestics. Emily seldom opposed
her father’s wishes by questions or remonstrances, or she would now have
asked why he did not take a servant, and have represented that his infirm
health made one almost necessary. But when, on the eve of their departure, she
found that he had dismissed Jacques, Francis, and Mary, and detained only
Theresa the old housekeeper, she was extremely surprised, and ventured to ask
his reason for having done so. “To save expences, my dear,” he
replied—“we are going on an expensive excursion.”

The physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and Provence; and St. Aubert
determined, therefore, to travel leisurely along the shores of the
Mediterranean, towards Provence.

They retired early to their chamber on the night before their departure; but
Emily had a few books and other things to collect, and the clock had struck
twelve before she had finished, or had remembered that some of her drawing
instruments, which she meant to take with her, were in the parlour below. As
she went to fetch these, she passed her father’s room, and, perceiving
the door half open, concluded that he was in his study—for, since the
death of Madame St. Aubert, it had been frequently his custom to rise from his
restless bed, and go thither to compose his mind. When she was below stairs she
looked into this room, but without finding him; and as she returned to her
chamber, she tapped at his door, and receiving no answer, stepped softly in, to
be certain whether he was there.

The room was dark, but a light glimmered through some panes of glass that were
placed in the upper part of a closet-door. Emily believed her father to be in
the closet, and, surprised that he was up at so late an hour, apprehended he
was unwell, and was going to enquire; but, considering that her sudden
appearance at this hour might alarm him, she removed her light to the
staircase, and then stepped softly to the closet. On looking through the panes
of glass, she saw him seated at a small table, with papers before him, some of
which he was reading with deep attention and interest, during which he often
wept and sobbed aloud. Emily, who had come to the door to learn whether her
father was ill, was now detained there by a mixture of curiosity and
tenderness. She could not witness his sorrow, without being anxious to know the
subject of; and she therefore continued to observe him in silence, concluding
that those papers were letters of her late mother. Presently he knelt down, and
with a look so solemn as she had seldom seen him assume, and which was mingled
with a certain wild expression, that partook more of horror than of any other
character, he prayed silently for a considerable time.

When he rose, a ghastly paleness was on his countenance. Emily was hastily
retiring; but she saw him turn again to the papers, and she stopped. He took
from among them a small case, and from thence a miniature picture. The rays of
light fell strongly upon it, and she perceived it to be that of a lady, but not
of her mother.

St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to his lips,
and then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force. Emily could scarcely
believe what she saw to be real. She never knew till now that he had a picture
of any other lady than her mother, much less that he had one which he evidently
valued so highly; but having looked repeatedly, to be certain that it was not
the resemblance of Madame St. Aubert, she became entirely convinced that it was
designed for that of some other person.

At length St. Aubert returned the picture to its case; and Emily, recollecting
that she was intruding upon his private sorrows, softly withdrew from the
chamber.

CHAPTER III

O how canst thou renounce the boundless store
Of charms which nature to her vot’ry yields!
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of even;
All that the mountain’s shelt’ring bosom shields,
And all the dread magnificence of heaven;
O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!
…..
These charms shall work thy soul’s eternal health,
And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart.
                    THE MINSTREL

St. Aubert, instead of taking the more direct road, that ran along the feet of
the Pyrenees to Languedoc, chose one that, winding over the heights, afforded
more extensive views and greater variety of romantic scenery. He turned a
little out of his way to take leave of M. Barreaux, whom he found botanizing in
the wood near his château, and who, when he was told the purpose of St.
Aubert’s visit, expressed a degree of concern, such as his friend had
thought it was scarcely possible for him to feel on any similar occasion. They
parted with mutual regret.

“If anything could have tempted me from my retirement,” said M.
Barreaux, “it would have been the pleasure of accompanying you on this
little tour. I do not often offer compliments; you may, therefore, believe me,
when I say, that I shall look for your return with impatience.”

The travellers proceeded on their journey. As they ascended the heights, St.
Aubert often looked back upon the château, in the plain below; tender images
crowded to his mind; his melancholy imagination suggested that he should return
no more; and though he checked this wandering thought, still he continued to
look, till the haziness of distance blended his home with the general
landscape, and St. Aubert seemed to

Drag at each remove a lengthening chain.

He and Emily continued sunk in musing silence for some leagues, from which
melancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy, struck with the
grandeur of the objects around, gradually yielded to delightful impressions.
The road now descended into glens, confined by stupendous walls of rock, grey
and barren, except where shrubs fringed their summits, or patches of meagre
vegetation tinted their recesses, in which the wild goat was frequently
browsing. And now, the way led to the lofty cliffs, from whence the landscape
was seen extending in all its magnificence.

Emily could not restrain her transport as she looked over the pine forests of
the mountains upon the vast plains, that, enriched with woods, towns, blushing
vines, and plantations of almonds, palms, and olives, stretched along, till
their various colours melted in distance into one harmonious hue, that seemed
to unite earth with heaven. Through the whole of this glorious scene the
majestic Garonne wandered; descending from its source among the Pyrenees, and
winding its blue waves towards the Bay of Biscay.

The ruggedness of the unfrequented road often obliged the wanderers to alight
from their little carriage, but they thought themselves amply repaid for this
inconvenience by the grandeur of the scenes; and, while the muleteer led his
animals slowly over the broken ground, the travellers had leisure to linger
amid these solitudes, and to indulge the sublime reflections, which soften,
while they elevate, the heart, and fill it with the certainty of a present God!
Still the enjoyment of St. Aubert was touched with that pensive melancholy,
which gives to every object a mellower tint, and breathes a sacred charm over
all around.

They had provided against part of the evil to be encountered from a want of
convenient inns, by carrying a stock of provisions in the carriage, so that
they might take refreshment on any pleasant spot, in the open air, and pass the
nights wherever they should happen to meet with a comfortable cottage. For the
mind, also, they had provided, by a work on botany, written by M. Barreaux, and
by several of the Latin and Italian poets; while Emily’s pencil enabled
her to preserve some of those combinations of forms, which charmed her at every
step.

The loneliness of the road, where, only now and then, a peasant was seen
driving his mule, or some mountaineer-children at play among the rocks,
heightened the effect of the scenery. St. Aubert was so much struck with it,
that he determined, if he could hear of a road, to penetrate further among the
mountains, and, bending his way rather more to the south, to emerge into
Rousillon, and coast the Mediterranean along part of that country to Languedoc.

Soon after mid-day, they reached the summit of one of those cliffs, which,
bright with the verdure of palm-trees, adorn, like gems, the tremendous walls
of the rocks, and which overlooked the greater part of Gascony, and part of
Languedoc. Here was shade, and the fresh water of a spring, that, gliding among
the turf, under the trees, thence precipitated itself from rock to rock, till
its dashing murmurs were lost in the abyss, though its white foam was long seen
amid the darkness of the pines below.

This was a spot well suited for rest, and the travellers alighted to dine,
while the mules were unharnessed to browse on the savoury herbs that enriched
this summit.

It was some time before St. Aubert or Emily could withdraw their attention from
the surrounding objects, so as to partake of their little repast. Seated in the
shade of the palms, St. Aubert pointed out to her observation the course of the
rivers, the situation of great towns, and the boundaries of provinces, which
science, rather than the eye, enabled him to describe. Notwithstanding this
occupation, when he had talked awhile he suddenly became silent, thoughtful,
and tears often swelled to his eyes, which Emily observed, and the sympathy of
her own heart told her their cause. The scene before them bore some
resemblance, though it was on a much grander scale, to a favourite one of the
late Madame St. Aubert, within view of the fishing-house. They both observed
this, and thought how delighted she would have been with the present landscape,
while they knew that her eyes must never, never more open upon this world. St.
Aubert remembered the last time of his visiting that spot in company with her,
and also the mournfully presaging thoughts which had then arisen in his mind,
and were now, even thus soon, realised! The recollections subdued him, and he
abruptly rose from his seat, and walked away to where no eye could observe his
grief.

When he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity; he took
Emily’s hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, and soon after
called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance, concerning a road among
the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael said, there were several that way, but
he did not know how far they extended, or even whether they were passable; and
St. Aubert, who did not intend to travel after sunset, asked what village they
could reach about that time. The muleteer calculated that they could easily
reach Mateau, which was in their present road; but that, if they took a road
that sloped more to the south, towards Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which he
thought they could gain before the evening shut in.

St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter course, and
Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules, again set forward,
but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing homage to a cross, that stood on
a rock impending over their way. Having concluded his devotions, he smacked his
whip in the air, and, in spite of the rough road, and the pain of his poor
mules, which he had been lately lamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along the
edge of a precipice, which it made the eye dizzy to look down. Emily was
terrified almost to fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending still greater danger
from suddenly stopping the driver, was compelled to sit quietly, and trust his
fate to the strength and discretion of the mules, who seemed to possess a
greater portion of the latter quality than their master; for they carried the
travellers safely into the valley, and there stopped upon the brink of the
rivulet that watered it.

Leaving the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered this narrow
valley screened by

Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell,
Here scorch’d by lightnings, there with ivy green.

The scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the spreading
branches of the larch and cedar, which threw their gloom over the cliff, or
athwart the torrent that rolled in the vale. No living creature appeared,
except the lizard, scrambling among the rocks, and often hanging upon points so
dangerous, that fancy shrunk from the view of them. This was such a scene as
Salvator would have chosen, had he then existed, for his canvas; St.
Aubert, impressed by the romantic character of the place, almost expected to
see banditti start from behind some projecting rock, and he kept his hand upon
the arms with which he always travelled.

As they advanced, the valley opened; its savage features gradually softened,
and, towards evening, they were among heathy mountains, stretched in far
perspective, along which the solitary sheep-bell was heard, and the voice of
the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to the nightly fold. His cabin,
partly shadowed by the cork-tree and the ilex, which St. Aubert observed to
flourish in higher regions of the air than any other trees, except the fir, was
all the human habitation that yet appeared. Along the bottom of this valley the
most vivid verdure was spread; and, in the little hollow recesses of the
mountains, under the shade of the oak and chestnut, herds of cattle were
grazing. Groups of them, too, were often seen reposing on the banks of the
rivulet, or laving their sides in the cool stream, and sipping its wave.

The sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon the water,
and heightened the rich yellow and purple tints of the heath and broom, that
overspread the mountains. St. Aubert enquired of Michael the distance to the
hamlet he had mentioned, but the man could not with certainty tell; and Emily
began to fear that he had mistaken the road. Here was no human being to assist,
or direct them; they had left the shepherd and his cabin far behind, and the
scene became so obscured in twilight, that the eye could not follow the distant
perspective of the valley in search of a cottage, or a hamlet. A glow of the
horizon still marked the west, and this was of some little use to the
travellers. Michael seemed endeavouring to keep up his courage by singing; his
music, however, was not of a kind to disperse melancholy; he sung, in a sort of
chant, one of the most dismal ditties his present auditors had ever heard, and
St. Aubert at length discovered it to be a vesper-hymn to his favourite saint.

They travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with which twilight and
solitude impress the mind. Michael had now ended his ditty, and nothing was
heard but the drowsy murmur of the breeze among the woods, and its light
flutter, as it blew freshly into the carriage. They were at length roused by
the sound of fire-arms. St. Aubert called to the muleteer to stop, and they
listened. The noise was not repeated; but presently they heard a rustling among
the brakes. St. Aubert drew forth a pistol, and ordered Michael to proceed as
fast as possible; who had not long obeyed, before a horn sounded, that made the
mountains ring. He looked again from the window, and then saw a young man
spring from the bushes into the road, followed by a couple of dogs. The
stranger was in a hunter’s dress. His gun was slung across his shoulders,
the hunter’s horn hung from his belt, and in his hand was a small pike,
which, as he held it, added to the manly grace of his figure, and assisted the
agility of his steps.

After a moment’s hesitation, St. Aubert again stopped the carriage, and
waited till he came up, that they might enquire concerning the hamlet they were
in search of. The stranger informed him, that it was only half a league
distant, that he was going thither himself, and would readily show the way. St.
Aubert thanked him for the offer, and, pleased with his chevalier-like air and
open countenance, asked him to take a seat in the carriage; which the stranger,
with an acknowledgment, declined, adding that he would keep pace with the
mules. “But I fear you will be wretchedly accommodated,” said he:
“the inhabitants of these mountains are a simple people, who are not only
without the luxuries of life, but almost destitute of what in other places are
held to be its necessaries.”

“I perceive you are not one of its inhabitants, sir,” said St.
Aubert.

“No, sir, I am only a wanderer here.”

The carriage drove on, and the increasing dusk made the travellers very
thankful that they had a guide; the frequent glens, too, that now opened among
the mountains, would likewise have added to their perplexity. Emily, as she
looked up one of these, saw something at a great distance like a bright cloud
in the air. “What light is yonder, sir?” said she.

St. Aubert looked, and perceived that it was the snowy summit of a mountain, so
much higher than any around it, that it still reflected the sun’s rays,
while those below lay in deep shade.

At length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk, and, soon
after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or rather were seen by
reflection in the stream, on whose margin they stood, and which still gleamed
with the evening light.

The stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, found not only
that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of house of public
reception. The stranger, however, offered to walk on, and enquire for a cottage
to accommodate them; for which further civility St. Aubert returned his thanks,
and said, that, as the village was so near, he would alight, and walk with him.
Emily followed slowly in the carriage.

On the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had had in the
chase. “Not much, sir,” he replied, “nor do I aim at it. I am
pleased with the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks among its
scenes. My dogs I take with me more for companionship than for game. This
dress, too, gives me an ostensible business, and procures me that respect from
the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to a lonely stranger, who had no
visible motive for coming among them.”

“I admire your taste,” said St. Aubert, “and, if I was a
younger man, should like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too,
am a wanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours—I
go in search of health, as much as of amusement.” St. Aubert sighed, and
paused; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he resumed: “If I can
hear of a tolerable road, that shall afford decent accommodation, it is my
intention to pass into Rousillon, and along the sea-shore to Languedoc. You,
sir, seem to be acquainted with the country, and can, perhaps, give me
information on the subject.”

The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely at his
service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, which led to a
town, whence it would be easy to proceed into Rousillon.

They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a cottage, that
would afford a night’s lodging. In several, which they entered,
ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and the owners eyed
St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity. Nothing like a bed could
be found, and he had ceased to enquire for one, when Emily joined him, who
observed the languor of her father’s countenance, and lamented, that he
had taken a road so ill provided with the comforts necessary for an invalid.
Other cottages, which they examined, seemed somewhat less savage than the
former, consisting of two rooms, if such they could be called; the first of
these occupied by mules and pigs, the second by the family, which generally
consisted of six or eight children, with their parents, who slept on beds of
skins and dried beech leaves, spread upon a mud floor. Here, light was
admitted, and smoke discharged, through an aperture in the roof; and here the
scent of spirits (for the travelling smugglers, who haunted the Pyrenees, had
made this rude people familiar with the use of liquors) was generally
perceptible enough. Emily turned from such scenes, and looked at her father
with anxious tenderness, which the young stranger seemed to observe; for,
drawing St. Aubert aside, he made him an offer of his own bed. “It is a
decent one,” said he, “when compared with what we have just seen,
yet such as in other circumstances I should be ashamed to offer you.” St.
Aubert acknowledged how much he felt himself obliged by this kindness, but
refused to accept it, till the young stranger would take no denial. “Do
not give me the pain of knowing, sir,” said he, “that an invalid,
like you, lies on hard skins, while I sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your
refusal wounds my pride; I must believe you think my offer unworthy your
acceptance. Let me show you the way. I have no doubt my landlady can
accommodate this young lady also.”

St. Aubert at length consented, that, if this could be done, he would accept
his kindness, though he felt rather surprised, that the stranger had proved
himself so deficient in gallantry, as to administer to the repose of an infirm
man, rather than to that of a very lovely young woman, for he had not once
offered the room for Emily. But she thought not of herself, and the animated
smile she gave him, told how much she felt herself obliged for the preference
of her father.

On their way, the stranger, whose name was Valancourt, stepped on first to
speak to his hostess, and she came out to welcome St. Aubert into a cottage,
much superior to any he had seen. This good woman seemed very willing to
accommodate the strangers, who were soon compelled to accept the only two beds
in the place. Eggs and milk were the only food the cottage afforded; but
against scarcity of provisions St. Aubert had provided, and he requested
Valancourt to stay, and partake with him of less homely fare; an invitation,
which was readily accepted, and they passed an hour in intelligent
conversation. St. Aubert was much pleased with the manly frankness, simplicity,
and keen susceptibility to the grandeur of nature, which his new acquaintance
discovered; and, indeed, he had often been heard to say, that, without a
certain simplicity of heart, this taste could not exist in any strong degree.

The conversation was interrupted by a violent uproar without, in which the
voice of the muleteer was heard above every other sound. Valancourt started
from his seat, and went to enquire the occasion; but the dispute continued so
long afterwards, that St. Aubert went himself, and found Michael quarrelling
with the hostess, because she had refused to let his mules lie in a little room
where he and three of her sons were to pass the night. The place was wretched
enough, but there was no other for these people to sleep in; and, with somewhat
more of delicacy than was usual among the inhabitants of this wild tract of
country, she persisted in refusing to let the animals have the same
bed-chamber with her children. This was a tender point with the
muleteer; his honour was wounded when his mules were treated with disrespect,
and he would have received a blow, perhaps, with more meekness. He declared
that his beasts were as honest beasts, and as good beasts, as any in the whole
province; and that they had a right to be well treated wherever they went.
“They are as harmless as lambs,” said he, “if people
don’t affront them. I never knew them behave themselves amiss above once
or twice in my life, and then they had good reason for doing so. Once, indeed,
they kicked at a boy’s leg that lay asleep in the stable, and broke it;
but I told them they were out there, and by St. Anthony! I believe they
understood me, for they never did so again.”

He concluded this eloquent harangue with protesting, that they should share
with him, go where he would.

The dispute was at length settled by Valancourt, who drew the hostess aside,
and desired she would let the muleteer and his beasts have the place in
question to themselves, while her sons should have the bed of skins designed
for him, for that he would wrap himself in his cloak, and sleep on the bench by
the cottage door. But this she thought it her duty to oppose, and she felt it
to be her inclination to disappoint the muleteer. Valancourt, however, was
positive, and the tedious affair was at length settled.

It was late when St. Aubert and Emily retired to their rooms, and Valancourt to
his station at the door, which, at this mild season, he preferred to a close
cabin and a bed of skins. St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to find in his room
volumes of Homer, Horace, and Petrarch; but the name of Valancourt, written in
them, told him to whom they belonged.

CHAPTER IV

In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,
Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene,
In darkness, and in storm he found delight;
Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene
The southern sun diffus’d his dazzling sheen.
Even sad vicissitude amus’d his soul;
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish’d not to control.
                    THE MINSTREL

St. Aubert awoke at an early hour, refreshed by sleep, and desirous to set
forward. He invited the stranger to breakfast with him; and, talking again of
the road, Valancourt said, that, some months past, he had travelled as far as
Beaujeu, which was a town of some consequence on the way to Rousillon. He
recommended it to St. Aubert to take that route, and the latter determined to
do so.

“The road from this hamlet,” said Valancourt, “and that to
Beaujeu, part at the distance of about a league and a half from hence; if you
will give me leave, I will direct your muleteer so far. I must wander
somewhere, and your company would make this a pleasanter ramble than any other
I could take.”

St. Aubert thankfully accepted his offer, and they set out together, the young
stranger on foot, for he refused the invitation of St. Aubert to take a seat in
his little carriage.

The road wound along the feet of the mountains through a pastoral valley,
bright with verdure, and varied with groves of dwarf oak, beech and sycamore,
under whose branches herds of cattle reposed. The mountain-ash too, and the
weeping birch, often threw their pendant foliage over the steeps above, where
the scanty soil scarcely concealed their roots, and where their light branches
waved to every breeze that fluttered from the mountains.

The travellers were frequently met at this early hour, for the sun had not yet
risen upon the valley, by shepherds driving immense flocks from their folds to
feed upon the hills. St. Aubert had set out thus early, not only that he might
enjoy the first appearance of sunrise, but that he might inhale the first pure
breath of morning, which above all things is refreshing to the spirits of the
invalid. In these regions it was particularly so, where an abundance of wild
flowers and aromatic herbs breathed forth their essence on the air.

The dawn, which softened the scenery with its peculiar grey tint, now
dispersed, and Emily watched the progress of the day, first trembling on the
tops of the highest cliffs, then touching them with splendid light, while their
sides and the vale below were still wrapt in dewy mist. Meanwhile, the sullen
grey of the eastern clouds began to blush, then to redden, and then to glow
with a thousand colours, till the golden light darted over all the air, touched
the lower points of the mountain’s brow, and glanced in long sloping
beams upon the valley and its stream. All nature seemed to have awakened from
death into life; the spirit of St. Aubert was renovated. His heart was full; he
wept, and his thoughts ascended to the Great Creator.

Emily wished to trip along the turf, so green and bright with dew, and to taste
the full delight of that liberty, which the izard seemed to enjoy as he bounded
along the brow of the cliffs; while Valancourt often stopped to speak with the
travellers, and with social feeling to point out to them the peculiar objects
of his admiration. St. Aubert was pleased with him: “Here is the real
ingenuousness and ardour of youth,” said he to himself; “this young
man has never been at Paris.”

He was sorry when they came to the spot where the roads parted, and his heart
took a more affectionate leave of him than is usual after so short an
acquaintance. Valancourt talked long by the side of the carriage; seemed more
than once to be going, but still lingered, and appeared to search anxiously for
topics of conversation to account for his delay. At length he took leave. As he
went, St. Aubert observed him look with an earnest and pensive eye at Emily,
who bowed to him with a countenance full of timid sweetness, while the carriage
drove on. St. Aubert, for whatever reason, soon after looked from the window,
and saw Valancourt standing upon the bank of the road, resting on his pike with
folded arms, and following the carriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, and
Valancourt, seeming to awake from his reverie, returned the salute, and started
away.

The aspect of the country now began to change, and the travellers soon found
themselves among mountains covered from their base nearly to their summits with
forests of gloomy pine, except where a rock of granite shot up from the vale,
and lost its snowy top in the clouds. The rivulet, which had hitherto
accompanied them, now expanded into a river; and, flowing deeply and silently
along, reflected, as in a mirror, the blackness of the impending shades.
Sometimes a cliff was seen lifting its bold head above the woods and the
vapours, that floated mid-way down the mountains; and sometimes a face of
perpendicular marble rose from the water’s edge, over which the larch
threw his gigantic arms, here scathed with lightning, and there floating in
luxuriant foliage.

They continued to travel over a rough and unfrequented road, seeing now and
then at a distance the solitary shepherd, with his dog, stalking along the
valley, and hearing only the dashing of torrents, which the woods concealed
from the eye, the long sullen murmur of the breeze, as it swept over the pines,
or the notes of the eagle and the vulture, which were seen towering round the
beetling cliff.

Often, as the carriage moved slowly over uneven ground, St. Aubert alighted,
and amused himself with examining the curious plants that grew on the banks of
the road, and with which these regions abound; while Emily, wrapt in high
enthusiasm, wandered away under the shades, listening in deep silence to the
lonely murmur of the woods.

Neither village nor hamlet was seen for many leagues; the goat-herd’s or
the hunter’s cabin, perched among the cliffs of the rocks, were the only
human habitations that appeared.

The travellers again took their dinner in the open air, on a pleasant spot in
the valley, under the spreading shade of cedars; and then set forward towards
Beaujeu.

The road now began to descend, and, leaving the pine forests behind, wound
among rocky precipices. The evening twilight again fell over the scene, and the
travellers were ignorant how far they might yet be from Beaujeu. St. Aubert,
however, conjectured that the distance could not be very great, and comforted
himself with the prospect of travelling on a more frequented road after
reaching that town, where he designed to pass the night. Mingled woods, and
rocks, and heathy mountains were now seen obscurely through the dusk; but soon
even these imperfect images faded in darkness. Michael proceeded with caution,
for he could scarcely distinguish the road; his mules, however, seemed to have
more sagacity, and their steps were sure.

On turning the angle of a mountain, a light appeared at a distance, that
illumined the rocks, and the horizon to a great extent. It was evidently a
large fire, but whether accidental, or otherwise, there were no means of
knowing. St. Aubert thought it was probably kindled by some of the numerous
banditti, that infested the Pyrenees, and he became watchful and anxious to
know whether the road passed near this fire. He had arms with him, which, on an
emergency, might afford some protection, though certainly a very unequal one,
against a band of robbers, so desperate too as those usually were who haunted
these wild regions. While many reflections rose upon his mind, he heard a voice
shouting from the road behind, and ordering the muleteer to stop. St. Aubert
bade him proceed as fast as possible; but either Michael, or his mules were
obstinate, for they did not quit the old pace. Horses’ feet were now
heard; a man rode up to the carriage, still ordering the driver to stop; and
St. Aubert, who could no longer doubt his purpose, was with difficulty able to
prepare a pistol for his defence, when his hand was upon the door of the
chaise. The man staggered on his horse, the report of the pistol was followed
by a groan, and St. Aubert’s horror may be imagined, when in the next
instant he thought he heard the faint voice of Valancourt. He now himself bade
the muleteer stop; and, pronouncing the name of Valancourt, was answered in a
voice, that no longer suffered him to doubt. St. Aubert, who instantly alighted
and went to his assistance, found him still sitting on his horse, but bleeding
profusely, and appearing to be in great pain, though he endeavoured to soften
the terror of St. Aubert by assurances that he was not materially hurt, the
wound being only in his arm. St. Aubert, with the muleteer, assisted him to
dismount, and he sat down on the bank of the road, where St. Aubert tried to
bind up his arm, but his hands trembled so excessively that he could not
accomplish it; and, Michael being now gone in pursuit of the horse, which, on
being disengaged from his rider, had galloped off, he called Emily to his
assistance. Receiving no answer, he went to the carriage, and found her sunk on
the seat in a fainting fit. Between the distress of this circumstance and that
of leaving Valancourt bleeding, he scarcely knew what he did; he endeavoured,
however, to raise her, and called to Michael to fetch water from the rivulet
that flowed by the road, but Michael was gone beyond the reach of his voice.
Valancourt, who heard these calls, and also the repeated name of Emily,
instantly understood the subject of his distress; and, almost forgetting his
own condition, he hastened to her relief. She was reviving when he reached the
carriage; and then, understanding that anxiety for him had occasioned her
indisposition, he assured her, in a voice that trembled, but not from anguish,
that his wound was of no consequence. While he said this St. Aubert turned
round, and perceiving that he was still bleeding, the subject of his alarm
changed again, and he hastily formed some handkerchiefs into a bandage. This
stopped the effusion of the blood; but St. Aubert, dreading the consequence of
the wound, enquired repeatedly how far they were from Beaujeu; when, learning
that it was at two leagues’ distance, his distress increased, since he
knew not how Valancourt, in his present state, would bear the motion of the
carriage, and perceived that he was already faint from loss of blood. When he
mentioned the subject of his anxiety, Valancourt entreated that he would not
suffer himself to be thus alarmed on his account, for that he had no doubt he
should be able to support himself very well; and then he talked of the accident
as a slight one. The muleteer being now returned with Valancourt’s horse,
assisted him into the chaise; and, as Emily was now revived, they moved slowly
on towards Beaujeu.

St. Aubert, when he had recovered from the terror occasioned him by this
accident, expressed surprise on seeing Valancourt, who explained his unexpected
appearance by saying, “You, sir, renewed my taste for society; when you
had left the hamlet, it did indeed appear a solitude. I determined, therefore,
since my object was merely amusement, to change the scene; and I took this
road, because I knew it led through a more romantic tract of mountains than the
spot I have left. Besides,” added he, hesitating for an instant, “I
will own, and why should I not? that I had some hope of overtaking you.”

“And I have made you a very unexpected return for the compliment,”
said St. Aubert, who lamented again the rashness which had produced the
accident, and explained the cause of his late alarm. But Valancourt seemed
anxious only to remove from the minds of his companions every unpleasant
feeling relative to himself; and, for that purpose, still struggled against a
sense of pain, and tried to converse with gaiety. Emily meanwhile was silent,
except when Valancourt particularly addressed her, and there was at those times
a tremulous tone in his voice that spoke much.

They were now so near the fire, which had long flamed at a distance on the
blackness of night, that it gleamed upon the road, and they could distinguish
figures moving about the blaze. The way winding still nearer, they perceived in
the valley one of those numerous bands of gipsies, which at that period
particularly haunted the wilds of the Pyrenees, and lived partly by plundering
the traveller. Emily looked with some degree of terror on the savage
countenances of these people, shown by the fire, which heightened the romantic
effects of the scenery, as it threw a red dusky gleam upon the rocks and on the
foliage of the trees, leaving heavy masses of shade and regions of obscurity,
which the eye feared to penetrate.

They were preparing their supper; a large pot stood by the fire, over which
several figures were busy. The blaze discovered a rude kind of tent, round
which many children and dogs were playing, and the whole formed a picture
highly grotesque. The travellers saw plainly their danger. Valancourt was
silent, but laid his hand on one of St. Aubert’s pistols; St. Aubert drew
forth another, and Michael was ordered to proceed as fast as possible. They
passed the place, however, without being attacked; the rovers being probably
unprepared for the opportunity, and too busy about their supper to feel much
interest, at the moment, in anything besides.

After a league and a half more, passed in darkness, the travellers arrived at
Beaujeu, and drove up to the only inn the place afforded; which, though
superior to any they had seen since they entered the mountains, was bad enough.

The surgeon of the town was immediately sent for, if a surgeon he could be
called, who prescribed for horses as well as for men, and shaved faces at least
as dexterously as he set bones. After examining Valancourt’s arm, and
perceiving that the bullet had passed through the flesh without touching the
bone, he dressed it, and left him with a solemn prescription of quiet, which
his patient was not inclined to obey. The delight of ease had now succeeded to
pain; for ease may be allowed to assume a positive quality when contrasted with
anguish; and, his spirits thus reanimated, he wished to partake of the
conversation of St. Aubert and Emily, who, released from so many apprehensions,
were uncommonly cheerful. Late as it was, however, St. Aubert was obliged to go
out with the landlord to buy meat for supper; and Emily, who, during this
interval, had been absent as long as she could, upon excuses of looking to
their accommodation, which she found rather better than she expected, was
compelled to return, and converse with Valancourt alone. They talked of the
character of the scenes they had passed, of the natural history of the country,
of poetry, and of St. Aubert; a subject on which Emily always spoke and
listened to with peculiar pleasure.

The travellers passed an agreeable evening; but St. Aubert was fatigued with
his journey; and, as Valancourt seemed again sensible of pain, they separated
soon after supper.

In the morning St. Aubert found that Valancourt had passed a restless night;
that he was feverish, and his wound very painful. The surgeon, when he dressed
it, advised him to remain quietly at Beaujeu; advice which was too reasonable
to be rejected. St. Aubert, however, had no favourable opinion of this
practitioner, and was anxious to commit Valancourt into more skilful hands; but
learning, upon enquiry, that there was no town within several leagues which
seemed more likely to afford better advice, he altered the plan of his journey,
and determined to await the recovery of Valancourt, who, with somewhat more
ceremony than sincerity, made many objections to this delay.

By order of his surgeon, Valancourt did not go out of the house that day; but
St. Aubert and Emily surveyed with delight the environs of the town, situated
at the feet of the Pyrenean Alps, that rose, some in abrupt precipices, and
others swelling with woods of cedar, fir, and cypress, which stretched nearly
to their highest summits. The cheerful green of the beech and mountain-ash was
sometimes seen, like a gleam of light, amidst the dark verdure of the forest;
and sometimes a torrent poured its sparkling flood, high among the woods.

Valancourt’s indisposition detained the travellers at Beaujeu several
days, during which interval St. Aubert had observed his disposition and his
talents with the philosophic inquiry so natural to him. He saw a frank and
generous nature, full of ardour, highly susceptible of whatever is grand and
beautiful, but impetuous, wild, and somewhat romantic. Valancourt had known
little of the world. His perceptions were clear, and his feelings just; his
indignation of an unworthy, or his admiration of a generous action, were
expressed in terms of equal vehemence. St. Aubert sometimes smiled at his
warmth, but seldom checked it, and often repeated to himself, “This young
man has never been at Paris.” A sigh sometimes followed this silent
ejaculation. He determined not to leave Valancourt till he should be perfectly
recovered; and, as he was now well enough to travel, though not able to manage
his horse, St. Aubert invited him to accompany him for a few days in the
carriage. This he the more readily did, since he had discovered that Valancourt
was of a family of the same name in Gascony, with whose respectability he was
well acquainted. The latter accepted the offer with great pleasure, and they
again set forward among these romantic wilds about Rousillon.

They travelled leisurely; stopping wherever a scene uncommonly grand appeared;
frequently alighting to walk to an eminence, whither the mules could not go,
from which the prospect opened in greater magnificence; and often sauntering
over hillocks covered with lavender, wild thyme, juniper, and tamarisc; and
under the shades of woods, between those boles they caught the long
mountain-vista, sublime beyond anything that Emily had ever imagined.

St. Aubert sometimes amused himself with botanizing, while Valancourt and Emily
strolled on; he pointing out to her notice the objects that particularly
charmed him, and reciting beautiful passages from such of the Latin and Italian
poets as he had heard her admire. In the pauses of conversation, when he
thought himself not observed, he frequently fixed his eyes pensively on her
countenance, which expressed with so much animation the taste and energy of her
mind; and when he spoke again, there was a peculiar tenderness in the tone of
his voice, that defeated any attempt to conceal his sentiments. By degrees
these silent pauses became more frequent; till Emily, only, betrayed an anxiety
to interrupt them; and she; who had been hitherto reserved, would now talk
again, and again, of the woods and the valleys and the mountains, to avoid the
danger of sympathy and silence.

From Beaujeu the road had constantly ascended, conducting the travellers into
the higher regions of the air, where immense glaciers exhibited their frozen
horrors, and eternal snow whitened the summits of the mountains. They often
paused to contemplate these stupendous scenes, and, seated on some wild cliff,
where only the ilex or the larch could flourish, looked over dark forests of
fir, and precipices where human foot had never wandered, into the glen—so
deep, that the thunder of the torrent, which was seen to foam along the bottom,
was scarcely heard to murmur. Over these crags rose others of stupendous
height, and fantastic shape; some shooting into cones; others impending far
over their base, in huge masses of granite, along whose broken ridges was often
lodged a weight of snow, that, trembling even to the vibration of a sound,
threatened to bear destruction in its course to the vale. Around, on every
side, far as the eye could penetrate, were seen only forms of
grandeur—the long perspective of mountain-tops, tinged with ethereal
blue, or white with snow; valleys of ice, and forests of gloomy fir. The
serenity and clearness of the air in these high regions were particularly
delightful to the travellers; it seemed to inspire them with a finer spirit,
and diffused an indescribable complacency over their minds. They had no words
to express the sublime emotions they felt. A solemn expression characterised
the feelings of St. Aubert; tears often came to his eyes, and he frequently
walked away from his companions. Valancourt now and then spoke, to point to
Emily’s notice some feature of the scene. The thinness of the atmosphere,
through which every object came so distinctly to the eye, surprised and deluded
her; who could scarcely believe that objects, which appeared so near, were, in
reality, so distant. The deep silence of these solitudes was broken only at
intervals by the scream of the vultures, seen cowering round some cliff below,
or by the cry of the eagle sailing high in the air; except when the travellers
listened to the hollow thunder that sometimes muttered at their feet. While,
above, the deep blue of the heavens was unobscured by the lightest cloud, half
way down the mountains, long billows of vapour were frequently seen rolling,
now wholly excluding the country below, and now opening, and partially
revealing its features. Emily delighted to observe the grandeur of these clouds
as they changed in shape and tints, and to watch their various effect on the
lower world, whose features, partly veiled, were continually assuming new forms
of sublimity.

After traversing these regions for many leagues, they began to descend towards
Rousillon, and features of beauty then mingled with the scene. Yet the
travellers did not look back without some regret to the sublime objects they
had quitted; though the eye, fatigued with the extension of its powers, was
glad to repose on the verdure of woods and pastures, that now hung on the
margin of the river below; to view again the humble cottage shaded by cedars,
the playful group of mountaineer-children, and the flowery nooks that appeared
among the hills.

As they descended, they saw at a distance, on the right, one of the grand
passes of the Pyrenees into Spain, gleaming with its battlements and towers to
the splendour of the setting rays, yellow tops of woods colouring the steeps
below, while far above aspired the snowy points of the mountains, still
reflecting a rosy hue.

St. Aubert began to look out for the little town he had been directed to by the
people of Beaujeu, and where he meant to pass the night; but no habitation yet
appeared. Of its distance Valancourt could not assist him to judge, for he had
never been so far along this chain of Alps before. There was, however, a road
to guide them; and there could be little doubt that it was the right one; for,
since they had left Beaujeu, there had been no variety of tracks to perplex or
mislead.

The sun now gave his last light, and St. Aubert bade the muleteer proceed with
all possible dispatch. He found, indeed, the lassitude of illness return upon
him, after a day of uncommon fatigue, both of body and mind, and he longed for
repose. His anxiety was not soothed by observing a numerous train, consisting
of men, horses, and loaded mules, winding down the steeps of an opposite
mountain, appearing and disappearing at intervals among the woods, so that its
numbers could not be judged of. Something bright, like arms, glanced in the
setting ray, and the military dress was distinguishable upon the men who were
in the van, and on others scattered among the troop that followed. As these
wound into the vale, the rear of the party emerged from the woods, and
exhibited a band of soldiers. St. Aubert’s apprehensions now subsided; he
had no doubt that the train before him consisted of smugglers, who, in
conveying prohibited goods over the Pyrenees, had been encountered, and
conquered by a party of troops.

The travellers had lingered so long among the sublimer scenes of these
mountains, that they found themselves entirely mistaken in their calculation
that they could reach Montigny at sunset; but, as they wound along the valley,
the saw, on a rude Alpine bridge, that united two lofty crags of the glen, a
group of mountaineer-children, amusing themselves with dropping pebbles into a
torrent below, and watching the stones plunge into the water, that threw up its
white spray high in the air as it received them, and returned a sullen sound,
which the echoes of the mountains prolonged. Under the bridge was seen a
perspective of the valley, with its cataract descending among the rocks, and a
cottage on a cliff, overshadowed with pines. It appeared, that they could not
be far from some small town. St. Aubert bade the muleteer stop, and then called
to the children to enquire if he was near Montigny; but the distance, and the
roaring of the waters, would not suffer his voice to be heard; and the crags,
adjoining the bridge, were of such tremendous height and steepness, that to
have climbed either would have been scarcely practicable to a person
unacquainted with the ascent. St. Aubert, therefore, did not waste more moments
in delay. They continued to travel long after twilight had obscured the road,
which was so broken, that, now thinking it safer to walk than to ride, they all
alighted. The moon was rising, but her light was yet too feeble to assist them.
While they stepped carefully on, they heard the vesper-bell of a convent. The
twilight would not permit them to distinguish anything like a building, but the
sounds seemed to come from some woods, that overhung an acclivity to the right.
Valancourt proposed to go in search of this convent. “If they will not
accommodate us with a night’s lodging,” said he, “they may
certainly inform us how far we are from Montigny, and direct us towards
it.” He was bounding forward, without waiting St. Aubert’s reply,
when the latter stopped him. “I am very weary,” said St. Aubert,
“and wish for nothing so much as for immediate rest. We will all go to
the convent; your good looks would defeat our purpose; but when they see mine
and Emily’s exhausted countenances, they will scarcely deny us
repose.”

As he said this, he took Emily’s arm within his, and, telling Michael to
wait awhile in the road with the carriage, they began to ascend towards the
woods, guided by the bell of the convent. His steps were feeble, and Valancourt
offered him his arm, which he accepted. The moon now threw a faint light over
their path, and, soon after, enabled them to distinguish some towers rising
above the tops of the woods. Still following the note of the bell, they entered
the shade of those woods, lighted only by the moonbeams, that glided down
between the leaves, and threw a tremulous uncertain gleam upon the steep track
they were winding. The gloom and the silence that prevailed, except when the
bell returned upon the air, together with the wildness of the surrounding
scene, struck Emily with a degree of fear, which, however, the voice and
conversation of Valancourt somewhat repressed. When they had been some time
ascending, St. Aubert complained of weariness, and they stopped to rest upon a
little green summit, where the trees opened, and admitted the moonlight. He
sat down upon the turf, between Emily and Valancourt. The bell had now ceased,
and the deep repose of the scene was undisturbed by any sound, for the low dull
murmur of some distant torrents might be said to sooth, rather than to
interrupt, the silence.

Before them, extended the valley they had quitted; its rocks, and woods to the
left, just silvered by the rays, formed a contrast to the deep shadow, that
involved the opposite cliffs, whose fringed summits only were tipped with
light; while the distant perspective of the valley was lost in the yellow mist
of moonlight. The travellers sat for some time wrapt in the complacency which
such scenes inspire.

“These scenes,” said Valancourt, at length, “soften the
heart, like the notes of sweet music, and inspire that delicious melancholy
which no person, who had felt it once, would resign for the gayest pleasures.
They waken our best and purest feelings, disposing us to benevolence, pity, and
friendship. Those whom I love—I always seem to love more in such an hour
as this.” His voice trembled, and he paused.

St. Aubert was silent; Emily perceived a warm tear fall upon the hand he held;
she knew the object of his thoughts; hers too had, for some time, been occupied
by the remembrance of her mother. He seemed by an effort to rouse himself.
“Yes,” said he, with a half-suppressed sigh, “the memory of
those we love—of times for ever past! in such an hour as this steals upon
the mind, like a strain of distant music in the stillness of night;—all
tender and harmonious as this landscape, sleeping in the mellow
moonlight.” After the pause of a moment, St. Aubert added, “I have
always fancied, that I thought with more clearness, and precision, at such an
hour than at any other, and that heart must be insensible in a great degree,
that does not soften to its influence. But many such there are.”

Valancourt sighed.

“Are there, indeed, many such?” said Emily.

“A few years hence, my Emily,” replied St. Aubert, “and you
may smile at the recollection of that question—if you do not weep to it.
But come, I am somewhat refreshed, let us proceed.”

Having emerged from the woods, they saw, upon a turfy hillock above, the
convent of which they were in search. A high wall, that surrounded it, led them
to an ancient gate, at which they knocked; and the poor monk, who opened it,
conducted them into a small adjoining room, where he desired they would wait
while he informed the superior of their request. In this interval, several
friars came in separately to look at them; and at length the first monk
returned, and they followed him to a room, where the superior was sitting in an
arm-chair, with a large folio volume, printed in black letter, open on a desk
before him. He received them with courtesy, though he did not rise from his
seat; and, having asked them a few questions, granted their request. After a
short conversation, formal and solemn on the part of the superior, they
withdrew to the apartment where they were to sup, and Valancourt, whom one of
the inferior friars civilly desired to accompany, went to seek Michael and his
mules. They had not descended half way down the cliffs, before they heard the
voice of the muleteer echoing far and wide. Sometimes he called on St. Aubert,
and sometimes on Valancourt; who having, at length, convinced him that he had
nothing to fear either for himself, or his master; and having disposed of him,
for the night, in a cottage on the skirts of the woods, returned to sup with
his friends, on such sober fare as the monks thought it prudent to set before
them. While St. Aubert was too much indisposed to share it, Emily, in her
anxiety for her father, forgot herself; and Valancourt, silent and thoughtful,
yet never inattentive to them, appeared particularly solicitous to accommodate
and relieve St. Aubert, who often observed, while his daughter was pressing him
to eat, or adjusting the pillow she had placed in the back of his arm-chair,
that Valancourt fixed on her a look of pensive tenderness, which he was not
displeased to understand.

They separated at an early hour, and retired to their respective apartments.
Emily was shown to hers by a nun of the convent, whom she was glad to dismiss,
for her heart was melancholy, and her attention so much abstracted, that
conversation with a stranger was painful. She thought her father daily
declining, and attributed his present fatigue more to the feeble state of his
frame, than to the difficulty of the journey. A train of gloomy ideas haunted
her mind, till she fell asleep.

In about two hours after, she was awakened by the chiming of a bell, and then
heard quick steps pass along the gallery, into which her chamber opened. She
was so little accustomed to the manners of a convent, as to be alarmed by this
circumstance; her fears, ever alive for her father, suggested that he was very
ill, and she rose in haste to go to him. Having paused, however, to let the
persons in the gallery pass before she opened her door, her thoughts, in the
mean time, recovered from the confusion of sleep, and she understood that the
bell was the call of the monks to prayers. It had now ceased, and, all being
again still, she forbore to go to St. Aubert’s room. Her mind was not
disposed for immediate sleep, and the moonlight, that shone into her chamber,
invited her to open the casement, and look out upon the country.

It was a still and beautiful night, the sky was unobscured by any cloud, and
scarce a leaf of the woods beneath trembled in the air. As she listened, the
midnight hymn of the monks rose softly from a chapel, that stood on one of the
lower cliffs, a holy strain, that seemed to ascend through the silence of
night to heaven, and her thoughts ascended with it. From the consideration of
His works, her mind arose to the adoration of the Deity, in His goodness and
power; wherever she turned her view, whether on the sleeping earth, or to the
vast regions of space, glowing with worlds beyond the reach of human thought,
the sublimity of God, and the majesty of His presence appeared. Her eyes were
filled with tears of awful love and admiration; and she felt that pure
devotion, superior to all the distinctions of human system, which lifts the
soul above this world, and seems to expand it into a nobler nature; such
devotion as can, perhaps, only be experienced, when the mind, rescued, for a
moment, from the humbleness of earthly considerations, aspires to contemplate
His power in the sublimity of His works, and His goodness in the infinity of
His blessings.

Is it not now the hour,
The holy hour, when to the cloudless height
Of yon starred concave climbs the full-orbed moon,
And to this nether world in solemn stillness,
Gives sign, that, to the list’ning ear of Heaven
Religion’s voice should plead? The very babe
Knows this, and, chance awak’d, his little hands
Lifts to the gods, and on his innocent couch
Calls down a blessing.
                    CARACTACUS

The midnight chant of the monks soon after dropped into silence; but Emily
remained at the casement, watching the setting moon, and the valley sinking
into deep shade, and willing to prolong her present state of mind. At length
she retired to her mattress, and sunk into tranquil slumber.

CHAPTER V

While in the rosy vale
Love breath’d his infant sighs, from anguish free.
                    THOMSON

St. Aubert, sufficiently restored by a night’s repose to pursue his
journey, set out in the morning, with his family and Valancourt, for Rousillon,
which he hoped to reach before night-fall. The scenes, through which they now
passed, were as wild and romantic, as any they had yet observed, with this
difference, that beauty, every now and then, softened the landscape into
smiles. Little woody recesses appeared among the mountains, covered with bright
verdure and flowers; or a pastoral valley opened its grassy bosom in the shade
of the cliffs, with flocks and herds loitering along the banks of a rivulet,
that refreshed it with perpetual green. St. Aubert could not repent the having
taken this fatiguing road, though he was this day, also, frequently obliged to
alight, to walk along the rugged precipice, and to climb the steep and flinty
mountain. The wonderful sublimity and variety of the prospects repaid him for
all this, and the enthusiasm, with which they were viewed by his young
companions, heightened his own, and awakened a remembrance of all the
delightful emotions of his early days, when the sublime charms of nature were
first unveiled to him. He found great pleasure in conversing with Valancourt,
and in listening to his ingenuous remarks. The fire and simplicity of his
manners seemed to render him a characteristic figure in the scenes around them;
and St. Aubert discovered in his sentiments the justness and the dignity of an
elevated mind, unbiased by intercourse with the world. He perceived, that his
opinions were formed, rather than imbibed; were more the result of thought,
than of learning. Of the world he seemed to know nothing; for he believed well
of all mankind, and this opinion gave him the reflected image of his own heart.

St. Aubert, as he sometimes lingered to examine the wild plants in his path,
often looked forward with pleasure to Emily and Valancourt, as they strolled on
together; he, with a countenance of animated delight, pointing to her attention
some grand feature of the scene; and she, listening and observing with a look
of tender seriousness, that spoke the elevation of her mind. They appeared like
two lovers who had never strayed beyond these their native mountains; whose
situation had secluded them from the frivolities of common life, whose ideas
were simple and grand, like the landscapes among which they moved, and who knew
no other happiness, than in the union of pure and affectionate hearts. St.
Aubert smiled, and sighed at the romantic picture of felicity his fancy drew;
and sighed again to think, that nature and simplicity were so little known to
the world, as that their pleasures were thought romantic.

“The world,” said he, pursuing this train of thought,
“ridicules a passion which it seldom feels; its scenes, and its
interests, distract the mind, deprave the taste, corrupt the heart, and love
cannot exist in a heart that has lost the meek dignity of innocence. Virtue and
taste are nearly the same, for virtue is little more than active taste, and the
most delicate affections of each combine in real love. How then are we to look
for love in great cities, where selfishness, dissipation, and insincerity
supply the place of tenderness, simplicity and truth?”

It was near noon, when the travellers, having arrived at a piece of steep and
dangerous road, alighted to walk. The road wound up an ascent, that was clothed
with wood, and, instead of following the carriage, they entered the refreshing
shade. A dewy coolness was diffused upon the air, which, with the bright
verdure of turf, that grew under the trees, the mingled fragrance of flowers
and of balm, thyme, and lavender, that enriched it, and the grandeur of the
pines, beech, and chestnuts, that overshadowed them, rendered this a most
delicious retreat. Sometimes, the thick foliage excluded all view of the
country; at others, it admitted some partial catches of the distant scenery,
which gave hints to the imagination to picture landscapes more interesting,
more impressive, than any that had been presented to the eye. The wanderers
often lingered to indulge in these reveries of fancy.

The pauses of silence, such as had formerly interrupted the conversations of
Valancourt and Emily, were more frequent today than ever. Valancourt often
dropped suddenly from the most animating vivacity into fits of deep musing, and
there was, sometimes, an unaffected melancholy in his smile, which Emily could
not avoid understanding, for her heart was interested in the sentiment it
spoke.

St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter under
them, following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction of the road, till
they perceived that they had totally lost it. They had continued near the brow
of the precipice, allured by the scenery it exhibited, while the road wound far
away over the cliff above. Valancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard no
voice, except his own, echoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to
regain the road were equally unsuccessful. While they were thus circumstanced,
they perceived a shepherd’s cabin, between the boles of the trees at some
distance, and Valancourt bounded on first to ask assistance. When he reached
it, he saw only two little children, at play, on the turf before the door. He
looked into the hut, but no person was there, and the eldest of the boys told
him that their father was with his flocks, and their mother was gone down into
the vale, but would be back presently. As he stood, considering what was
further to be done, on a sudden he heard Michael’s voice roaring forth
most manfully among the cliffs above, till he made their echoes ring.
Valancourt immediately answered the call, and endeavoured to make his way
through the thicket that clothed the steeps, following the direction of the
sound. After much struggle over brambles and precipices, he reached Michael,
and at length prevailed with him to be silent, and to listen to him. The road
was at a considerable distance from the spot where St. Aubert and Emily were;
the carriage could not easily return to the entrance of the wood, and, since it
would be very fatiguing for St. Aubert to climb the long and steep road to the
place where it now stood, Valancourt was anxious to find a more easy ascent, by
the way he had himself passed.

Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and rested themselves on
a rustic bench, fastened between two pines, which overshadowed it, till
Valancourt, whose steps they had observed, should return.

The eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still to observe
the strangers, while the younger continued his little gambols, and teased his
brother to join in them. St. Aubert looked with pleasure upon this picture of
infantine simplicity, till it brought to his remembrance his own boys, whom he
had lost about the age of these, and their lamented mother; and he sunk into a
thoughtfulness, which Emily observing, she immediately began to sing one of
those simple and lively airs he was so fond of, and which she knew how to give
with the most captivating sweetness. St. Aubert smiled on her through his
tears, took her hand and pressed it affectionately, and then tried to dissipate
the melancholy reflections that lingered in his mind.

While she sung, Valancourt approached, who was unwilling to interrupt her, and
paused at a little distance to listen. When she had concluded, he joined the
party, and told them, that he had found Michael, as well as a way, by which he
thought they could ascend the cliff to the carriage. He pointed to the woody
steeps above, which St. Aubert surveyed with an anxious eye. He was already
wearied by his walk, and this ascent was formidable to him. He thought,
however, it would be less toilsome than the long and broken road, and he
determined to attempt it; but Emily, ever watchful of his ease, proposing that
he should rest, and dine before they proceeded further, Valancourt went to the
carriage for the refreshments deposited there.

On his return, he proposed removing a little higher up the mountain, to where
the woods opened upon a grand and extensive prospect; and thither they were
preparing to go, when they saw a young woman join the children, and caress and
weep over them.

The travellers, interested by her distress, stopped to observe her. She took
the youngest of the children in her arms, and, perceiving the strangers,
hastily dried her tears, and proceeded to the cottage. St. Aubert, on enquiring
the occasion of her sorrow, learned that her husband, who was a shepherd, and
lived here in the summer months to watch over the flocks he led to feed upon
these mountains, had lost, on the preceding night, his little all. A gang of
gipsies, who had for some time infested the neighbourhood, had driven away
several of his master’s sheep. “Jacques,” added the
shepherd’s wife, “had saved a little money, and had bought a few
sheep with it, and now they must go to his master for those that are stolen;
and what is worse than all, his master, when he comes to know how it is, will
trust him no longer with the care of his flocks, for he is a hard man! and then
what is to become of our children!”

The innocent countenance of the woman, and the simplicity of her manner in
relating her grievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe her story; and
Valancourt, convinced that it was true, asked eagerly what was the value of the
stolen sheep; on hearing which he turned away with a look of disappointment.
St. Aubert put some money into her hand, Emily too gave something from her
little purse, and they walked towards the cliff; but Valancourt lingered
behind, and spoke to the shepherd’s wife, who was now weeping with
gratitude and surprise. He enquired how much money was yet wanting to replace
the stolen sheep, and found, that it was a sum very little short of all he had
about him. He was perplexed and distressed. “This sum then,” said
he to himself, “would make this poor family completely happy—it is
in my power to give it—to make them completely happy! But what is to
become of me?—how shall I contrive to reach home with the little money
that will remain?” For a moment he stood, unwilling to forego the luxury
of raising a family from ruin to happiness, yet considering the difficulties of
pursuing his journey with so small a sum as would be left.

While he was in this state of perplexity, the shepherd himself appeared: his
children ran to meet him; he took one of them in his arms, and, with the other
clinging to his coat, came forward with a loitering step. His forlorn and
melancholy look determined Valancourt at once; he threw down all the money he
had, except a very few louis, and bounded away after St. Aubert and Emily, who
were proceeding slowly up the steep. Valancourt had seldom felt his heart so
light as at this moment; his gay spirits danced with pleasure; every object
around him appeared more interesting, or beautiful, than before. St. Aubert
observed the uncommon vivacity of his countenance: “What has pleased you
so much?” said he. “O what a lovely day,” replied Valancourt,
“how brightly the sun shines, how pure is this air, what enchanting
scenery!” “It is indeed enchanting,” said St. Aubert, whom
early experience had taught to understand the nature of Valancourt’s
present feelings. “What pity that the wealthy, who can command such
sunshine, should ever pass their days in gloom—in the cold shade of
selfishness! For you, my young friend, may the sun always shine as brightly as
at this moment; may your own conduct always give you the sunshine of
benevolence and reason united!”

Valancourt, highly flattered by this compliment, could make no reply but by a
smile of gratitude.

They continued to wind under the woods, between the grassy knolls of the
mountain, and, as they reached the shady summit, which he had pointed out, the
whole party burst into an exclamation. Behind the spot where they stood, the
rock rose perpendicularly in a massy wall to a considerable height, and then
branched out into overhanging crags. Their grey tints were well contrasted by
the bright hues of the plants and wild flowers, that grew in their fractured
sides, and were deepened by the gloom of the pines and cedars, that waved
above. The steeps below, over which the eye passed abruptly to the valley, were
fringed with thickets of alpine shrubs; and, lower still, appeared the tufted
tops of the chesnut woods, that clothed their base, among which peeped forth
the shepherd’s cottage, just left by the travellers, with its bluish
smoke curling high in the air. On every side appeared the majestic summits of
the Pyrenees, some exhibiting tremendous crags of marble, whose appearance was
changing every instant, as the varying lights fell upon their surface; others,
still higher, displaying only snowy points, while their lower steeps were
covered almost invariably with forests of pine, larch, and oak, that stretched
down to the vale. This was one of the narrow valleys, that open from the
Pyrenees into the country of Rousillon, and whose green pastures, and
cultivated beauty, form a decided and wonderful contrast to the romantic
grandeur that environs it. Through a vista of the mountains appeared the
lowlands of Rousillon, tinted with the blue haze of distance, as they united
with the waters of the Mediterranean; where, on a promontory, which marked the
boundary of the shore, stood a lonely beacon, over which were seen circling
flights of sea-fowl. Beyond, appeared, now and then, a stealing sail, white
with the sunbeam, and whose progress was perceivable by its approach to the
light-house. Sometimes, too, was seen a sail so distant, that it served only to
mark the line of separation between the sky and the waves.

On the other side of the valley, immediately opposite to the spot where the
travellers rested, a rocky pass opened toward Gascony. Here no sign of
cultivation appeared. The rocks of granite, that screened the glen, rose
abruptly from their base, and stretched their barren points to the clouds,
unvaried with woods, and uncheered even by a hunter’s cabin. Sometimes,
indeed, a gigantic larch threw its long shade over the precipice, and here and
there a cliff reared on its brow a monumental cross, to tell the traveller the
fate of him who had ventured thither before. This spot seemed the very haunt of
banditti; and Emily, as she looked down upon it, almost expected to see them
stealing out from some hollow cave to look for their prey. Soon after an object
not less terrific struck her,—a gibbet standing on a point of rock near
the entrance of the pass, and immediately over one of the crosses she had
before observed. These were hieroglyphics that told a plain and dreadful story.
She forbore to point it out to St. Aubert, but it threw a gloom over her
spirits, and made her anxious to hasten forward, that they might with certainty
reach Rousillon before night-fall. It was necessary, however, that St. Aubert
should take some refreshment, and, seating themselves on the short dry turf,
they opened the basket of provisions, while

by breezy murmurs cool’d,
Broad o’er their heads the verdant cedars wave,
And high palmetos lift their graceful shade.
———they draw
Ethereal soul, there drink reviving gales
Profusely breathing from the piney groves,
And vales of fragrance; there at a distance hear
The roaring floods, and cataracts.
                    THOMSON

St. Aubert was revived by rest, and by the serene air of this summit; and
Valancourt was so charmed with all around, and with the conversation of his
companions, that he seemed to have forgotten he had any further to go. Having
concluded their simple repast, they gave a long farewell look to the scene, and
again began to ascend. St. Aubert rejoiced when he reached the carriage, which
Emily entered with him; but Valancourt, willing to take a more extensive view
of the enchanting country, into which they were about to descend, than he could
do from a carriage, loosened his dogs, and once more bounded with them along
the banks of the road. He often quitted it for points that promised a wider
prospect, and the slow pace, at which the mules travelled, allowed him to
overtake them with ease. Whenever a scene of uncommon magnificence appeared, he
hastened to inform St. Aubert, who, though he was too much tired to walk
himself, sometimes made the chaise wait, while Emily went to the neighbouring
cliff.

It was evening when they descended the lower alps, that bind Rousillon, and
form a majestic barrier round that charming country, leaving it open only on
the east to the Mediterranean. The gay tints of cultivation once more
beautified the landscape; for the lowlands were coloured with the richest hues,
which a luxuriant climate, and an industrious people can awaken into life.
Groves of orange and lemon perfumed the air, their ripe fruit glowing among the
foliage; while, sloping to the plains, extensive vineyards spread their
treasures. Beyond these, woods and pastures, and mingled towns and hamlets
stretched towards the sea, on whose bright surface gleamed many a distant sail;
while, over the whole scene, was diffused the purple glow of evening. This
landscape with the surrounding alps did, indeed, present a perfect picture of
the lovely and the sublime, of “beauty sleeping in the lap of
horror.”

The travellers, having reached the plains, proceeded, between hedges of
flowering myrtle and pomegranate, to the town of Arles, where they proposed to
rest for the night. They met with simple, but neat accommodation, and would
have passed a happy evening, after the toils and the delights of this day, had
not the approaching separation thrown a gloom over their spirit. It was St.
Aubert’s plan to proceed, on the morrow, to the borders of the
Mediterranean, and travel along its shores into Languedoc; and Valancourt,
since he was now nearly recovered, and had no longer a pretence for continuing
with his new friends, resolved to leave them here. St. Aubert, who was much
pleased with him, invited him to go further, but did not repeat the invitation,
and Valancourt had resolution enough to forego the temptation of accepting it,
that he might prove himself not unworthy of the favour. On the following
morning, therefore, they were to part, St. Aubert to pursue his way to
Languedoc, and Valancourt to explore new scenes among the mountains, on his
return home. During this evening he was often silent and thoughtful; St.
Aubert’s manner towards him was affectionate, though grave, and Emily was
serious, though she made frequent efforts to appear cheerful. After one of the
most melancholy evenings they had yet passed together, they separated for the
night.

CHAPTER VI

I care not, Fortune! what you me deny;
You cannot rob me of free nature’s grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora shows her brightening face;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave:
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.
                    THOMSON

In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily, neither of
whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of illness still hung over St.
Aubert, and to Emily’s fears his disorder appeared to be increasing fast
upon him. She watched his looks with anxious affection, and their expression
was always faithfully reflected in her own.

At the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made known his name
and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for the family estates,
which were now in the possession of an elder brother of Valancourt, were little
more than twenty miles distant from La Vallée, and he had sometimes met the
elder Valancourt on visits in the neighbourhood. This knowledge had made him
more willingly receive his present companion; for, though his countenance and
manners would have won him the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who was very apt to
trust to the intelligence of his own eyes, with respect to countenances, he
would not have accepted these, as sufficient introductions to that of his
daughter.

The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding night; but
their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the carriage wheels,
which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily. Valancourt started from his
chair, and went to the window; it was indeed the carriage, and he returned to
his seat without speaking. The moment was now come when they must part. St.
Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he would never pass La Vallée without
favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt, eagerly thanking him, assured him
that he never would; as he said which he looked timidly at Emily, who tried to
smile away the seriousness of her spirits. They passed a few minutes in
interesting conversation, and St. Aubert then led the way to the carriage,
Emily and Valancourt following in silence. The latter lingered at the door
several minutes after they were seated, and none of the party seemed to have
courage enough to say—Farewell. At length, St. Aubert pronounced the
melancholy word, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a
dejected smile, and the carriage drove on.

The travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquil pensiveness,
which is not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it by observing, “This is
a very promising young man; it is many years since I have been so much pleased
with any person, on so short an acquaintance. He brings back to my memory the
days of my youth, when every scene was new and delightful!” St. Aubert
sighed, and sunk again into a reverie; and, as Emily looked back upon the road
they had passed, Valancourt was seen, at the door of the little inn, following
them with his eyes. Her perceived her, and waved his hand; and she returned the
adieu, till the winding road shut her from his sight.

“I remember when I was about his age,” resumed St. Aubert,
“and I thought, and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon
me then, now—it is closing.”

“My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,” said Emily in a trembling
voice, “I hope you have many, many years to live—for your own
sake—for my sake.”

“Ah, my Emily!” replied St. Aubert, “for thy sake!
Well—I hope it is so.” He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down
his cheek, threw a smile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice,
“there is something in the ardour and ingenuousness of youth, which is
particularly pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if his feelings have
not been entirely corroded by the world. It is cheering and reviving, like the
view of spring to a sick person; his mind catches somewhat of the spirit of the
season, and his eyes are lighted up with a transient sunshine. Valancourt is
this spring to me.”

Emily, who pressed her father’s hand affectionately, had never before
listened with so much pleasure to the praises he bestowed; no, not even when he
had bestowed them on herself.

They travelled on, among vineyards, woods, and pastures, delighted with the
romantic beauty of the landscape, which was bounded, on one side, by the
grandeur of the Pyrenees, and, on the other, by the ocean; and, soon after
noon, they reached the town of Colioure, situated on the Mediterranean. Here
they dined, and rested till towards the cool of day, when they pursued their
way along the shores—those enchanting shores!—which extend to
Languedoc. Emily gazed with enthusiasm on the vastness of the sea, its surface
varying, as the lights and shadows fell, and on its woody banks, mellowed with
autumnal tints.

St. Aubert was impatient to reach Perpignan, where he expected letters from M.
Quesnel; and it was the expectation of these letters, that had induced him to
leave Colioure, for his feeble frame had required immediate rest. After
travelling a few miles, he fell asleep; and Emily, who had put two or three
books into the carriage, on leaving La Vallée, had now the leisure for looking
into them. She sought for one, in which Valancourt had been reading the day
before, and hoped for the pleasure of retracing a page, over which the eyes of
a beloved friend had lately passed, of dwelling on the passages, which he had
admired, and of permitting them to speak to her in the language of his own
mind, and to bring himself to her presence. On searching for the book, she
could find it nowhere, but in its stead perceived a volume of Petrarch’s
poems, that had belonged to Valancourt, whose name was written in it, and from
which he had frequently read passages to her, with all the pathetic expression,
that characterised the feelings of the author. She hesitated in believing, what
would have been sufficiently apparent to almost any other person, that he had
purposely left this book, instead of the one she had lost, and that love had
prompted the exchange; but, having opened it with impatient pleasure, and
observed the lines of his pencil drawn along the various passages he had read
aloud, and under others more descriptive of delicate tenderness than he had
dared to trust his voice with, the conviction came, at length, to her mind. For
some moments she was conscious only of being beloved; then, a recollection of
all the variations of tone and countenance, with which he had recited these
sonnets, and of the soul, which spoke in their expression, pressed to her
memory, and she wept over the memorial of his affection.

They arrived at Perpignan soon after sunset, where St. Aubert found, as he had
expected, letters from M. Quesnel, the contents of which so evidently and
grievously affected him, that Emily was alarmed, and pressed him, as far as her
delicacy would permit, to disclose the occasion of his concern; but he answered
her only by tears, and immediately began to talk on other topics. Emily, though
she forbore to press the one most interesting to her, was greatly affected by
her father’s manner, and passed a night of sleepless solicitude.

In the morning they pursued their journey along the coast towards Leucate,
another town on the Mediterranean, situated on the borders of Languedoc and
Rousillon. On the way, Emily renewed the subject of the preceding night, and
appeared so deeply affected by St. Aubert’s silence and dejection, that
he relaxed from his reserve. “I was unwilling, my dear Emily,” said
he, “to throw a cloud over the pleasure you receive from these scenes,
and meant, therefore, to conceal, for the present, some circumstances, with
which, however, you must at length have been made acquainted. But your anxiety
has defeated my purpose; you suffer as much from this, perhaps, as you will do
from a knowledge of the facts I have to relate. M. Quesnel’s visit proved
an unhappy one to me; he came to tell me part of the news he has now confirmed.
You may have heard me mention a M. Motteville, of Paris, but you did not know
that the chief of my personal property was invested in his hands. I had great
confidence in him, and I am yet willing to believe, that he is not wholly
unworthy of my esteem. A variety of circumstances have concurred to ruin him,
and—I am ruined with him.”

St. Aubert paused to conceal his emotion.

“The letters I have just received from M. Quesnel,” resumed he,
struggling to speak with firmness, “enclosed others from Motteville,
which confirmed all I dreaded.”

“Must we then quit La Vallée?” said Emily, after a long pause of
silence. “That is yet uncertain,” replied St. Aubert, “it
will depend upon the compromise Motteville is able to make with his creditors.
My income, you know, was never large, and now it will be reduced to little
indeed! It is for you, Emily, for you, my child, that I am most
afflicted.” His last words faltered; Emily smiled tenderly upon him
through her tears, and then, endeavouring to overcome her emotion, “My
dear father,” said she, “do not grieve for me, or for yourself; we
may yet be happy;—if La Vallée remains for us, we must be happy. We will
retain only one servant, and you shall scarcely perceive the change in your
income. Be comforted, my dear sir; we shall not feel the want of those
luxuries, which others value so highly, since we never had a taste for them;
and poverty cannot deprive us of many consolations. It cannot rob us of the
affection we have for each other, or degrade us in our own opinion, or in that
of any person, whose opinion we ought to value.”

St. Aubert concealed his face with his handkerchief, and was unable to speak;
but Emily continued to urge to her father the truths, which himself had
impressed upon her mind.

“Besides, my dear sir, poverty cannot deprive us of intellectual
delights. It cannot deprive you of the comfort of affording me examples of
fortitude and benevolence; nor me of the delight of consoling a beloved parent.
It cannot deaden our taste for the grand, and the beautiful, or deny us the
means of indulging it; for the scenes of nature—those sublime spectacles,
so infinitely superior to all artificial luxuries! are open for the enjoyment
of the poor, as well as of the rich. Of what, then, have we to complain, so
long as we are not in want of necessaries? Pleasures, such as wealth cannot
buy, will still be ours. We retain, then, the sublime luxuries of nature, and
lose only the frivolous ones of art.”

St. Aubert could not reply: he caught Emily to his bosom, their tears flowed
together, but—they were not tears of sorrow. After this language of the
heart, all other would have been feeble, and they remained silent for some
time. Then, St. Aubert conversed as before; for, if his mind had not recovered
its natural tranquillity, it at least assumed the appearance of it.

They reached the romantic town of Leucate early in the day, but St. Aubert was
weary, and they determined to pass the night there. In the evening, he exerted
himself so far as to walk with his daughter to view the environs that overlook
the lake of Leucate, the Mediterranean, part of Rousillon, with the Pyrenees,
and a wide extent of the luxuriant province of Languedoc, now blushing with the
ripened vintage, which the peasants were beginning to gather. St. Aubert and
Emily saw the busy groups, caught the joyous song, that was wafted on the
breeze, and anticipated, with apparent pleasure, their next day’s journey
over this gay region. He designed, however, still to wind along the sea-shore.
To return home immediately was partly his wish, but from this he was withheld
by a desire to lengthen the pleasure, which the journey gave his daughter, and
to try the effect of the sea air on his own disorder.

On the following day, therefore, they recommenced their journey through
Languedoc, winding the shores of the Mediterranean; the Pyrenees still forming
the magnificent back-ground of their prospects, while on their right was the
ocean, and, on their left, wide extended plains melting into the blue horizon.
St. Aubert was pleased, and conversed much with Emily, yet his cheerfulness was
sometimes artificial, and sometimes a shade of melancholy would steal upon his
countenance, and betray him. This was soon chased away by Emily’s smile;
who smiled, however, with an aching heart, for she saw that his misfortunes
preyed upon his mind, and upon his enfeebled frame.

It was evening when they reached a small village of Upper Languedoc, where they
meant to pass the night, but the place could not afford them beds; for here,
too, it was the time of the vintage, and they were obliged to proceed to the
next post. The languor of illness and of fatigue, which returned upon St.
Aubert, required immediate repose, and the evening was now far advanced; but
from necessity there was no appeal, and he ordered Michael to proceed.

The rich plains of Languedoc, which exhibited all the glories of the vintage,
with the gaieties of a French festival, no longer awakened St. Aubert to
pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to the hilarity and
youthful beauty which surrounded him. As his languid eyes moved over the scene,
he considered, that they would soon, perhaps, be closed for ever on this world.
“Those distant and sublime mountains,” said he secretly, as he
gazed on a chain of the Pyrenees that stretched towards the west, “these
luxuriant plains, this blue vault, the cheerful light of day, will be shut from
my eyes! The song of the peasant, the cheering voice of man—will no
longer sound for me!”

The intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to read what passed in the mind of her
father, and she fixed them on his face, with an expression of such tender pity,
as recalled his thoughts from every desultory object of regret, and he
remembered only, that he must leave his daughter without protection. This
reflection changed regret to agony; he sighed deeply, and remained silent,
while she seemed to understand that sigh, for she pressed his hand
affectionately, and then turned to the window to conceal her tears. The sun now
threw a last yellow gleam on the waves of the Mediterranean, and the gloom of
twilight spread fast over the scene, till only a melancholy ray appeared on the
western horizon, marking the point where the sun had set amid the vapours of an
autumnal evening. A cool breeze now came from the shore, and Emily let down the
glass; but the air, which was refreshing to health, was as chilling to
sickness, and St. Aubert desired, that the window might be drawn up. Increasing
illness made him now more anxious than ever to finish the day’s journey,
and he stopped the muleteer to enquire how far they had yet to go to the next
post. He replied, “Nine miles.” “I feel I am unable to
proceed much further,” said St. Aubert; “enquire, as you go, if
there is any house on the road that would accommodate us for the night.”
He sunk back in the carriage, and Michael, cracking his whip in the air, set
off, and continued on the full gallop, till St. Aubert, almost fainting, called
to him to stop. Emily looked anxiously from the window, and saw a peasant
walking at some little distance on the road, for whom they waited, till he came
up, when he was asked, if there was any house in the neighbourhood that
accommodated travellers. He replied, that he knew of none. “There is a
château, indeed, among those woods on the right,” added he, “but I
believe it receives nobody, and I cannot show you the way, for I am almost a
stranger here.” St. Aubert was going to ask him some further question
concerning the château, but the man abruptly passed on. After some
consideration, he ordered Michael to proceed slowly to the woods. Every moment
now deepened the twilight, and increased the difficulty of finding the road.
Another peasant soon after passed. “Which is the way to the château in
the woods?” cried Michael.

“The château in the woods!” exclaimed the peasant—“Do
you mean that with the turret, yonder?”

“I don’t know as for the turret, as you call it,” said
Michael, “I mean that white piece of a building, that we see at a
distance there, among the trees.”

“Yes, that is the turret; why, who are you, that you are going
thither?” said the man with surprise.

St. Aubert, on hearing this odd question, and observing the peculiar tone in
which it was delivered, looked out from the carriage. “We are
travellers,” said he, “who are in search of a house of
accommodation for the night; is there any hereabout?”

“None, Monsieur, unless you have a mind to try your luck yonder,”
replied the peasant, pointing to the woods, “but I would not advise you
to go there.”

“To whom does the château belong?”

“I scarcely know myself, Monsieur.”

“It is uninhabited, then?”—“No, not uninhabited; the
steward and housekeeper are there, I believe.”

On hearing this, St. Aubert determined to proceed to the château, and risk the
refusal of being accommodated for the night; he therefore desired the
countryman would show Michael the way, and bade him expect reward for his
trouble. The man was for a moment silent, and then said, that he was going on
other business, but that the road could not be missed, if they went up an
avenue to the right, to which he pointed. St. Aubert was going to speak, but
the peasant wished him good night, and walked on.

The carriage now moved towards the avenue, which was guarded by a gate, and
Michael having dismounted to open it, they entered between rows of ancient oak
and chesnut, whose intermingled branches formed a lofty arch above. There was
something so gloomy and desolate in the appearance of this avenue, and its
lonely silence, that Emily almost shuddered as she passed along; and,
recollecting the manner in which the peasant had mentioned the château, she
gave a mysterious meaning to his words, such as she had not suspected when he
uttered them. These apprehensions, however, she tried to check, considering
that they were probably the effect of a melancholy imagination, which her
father’s situation, and a consideration of her own circumstances, had
made sensible to every impression.

They passed slowly on, for they were now almost in darkness, which, together
with the unevenness of the ground, and the frequent roots of old trees, that
shot up above the soil, made it necessary to proceed with caution. On a sudden
Michael stopped the carriage; and, as St. Aubert looked from the window to
enquire the cause, he perceived a figure at some distance moving up the avenue.
The dusk would not permit him to distinguish what it was, but he bade Michael
go on.

“This seems a wild place,” said Michael; “there is no house
hereabout, don’t your honour think we had better turn back?”

“Go a little farther, and if we see no house then, we will return to the
road,” replied St. Aubert.

Michael proceeded with reluctance, and the extreme slowness of his pace made
St. Aubert look again from the window to hasten him, when again he saw the same
figure. He was somewhat startled: probably the gloominess of the spot made him
more liable to alarm than usual; however this might be, he now stopped Michael,
and bade him call to the person in the avenue.

“Please your honour, he may be a robber,” said Michael. “It
does not please me,” replied St. Aubert, who could not forbear smiling at
the simplicity of his phrase, “and we will, therefore, return to the
road, for I see no probability of meeting here with what we seek.”

Michael turned about immediately, and was retracing his way with alacrity, when
a voice was heard from among the trees on the left. It was not the voice of
command, or distress, but a deep hollow tone, which seemed to be scarcely
human. The man whipped his mules till they went as fast as possible, regardless
of the darkness, the broken ground, and the necks of the whole party, nor once
stopped till he reached the gate, which opened from the avenue into the
high-road, where he went into a more moderate pace.

“I am very ill,” said St. Aubert, taking his daughter’s hand.
“You are worse, then, sir!” said Emily, extremely alarmed by his
manner, “you are worse, and here is no assistance. Good God! what is to
be done!” He leaned his head on her shoulder, while she endeavoured to
support him with her arm, and Michael was again ordered to stop. When the
rattling of the wheels had ceased, music was heard on their air; it was to
Emily the voice of Hope. “Oh! we are near some human habitation!”
said she, “help may soon be had.”

She listened anxiously; the sounds were distant, and seemed to come from a
remote part of the woods that bordered the road; and, as she looked towards the
spot whence they issued, she perceived in the faint moonlight something like a
château. It was difficult, however, to reach this; St. Aubert was now too ill
to bear the motion of the carriage; Michael could not quit his mules; and
Emily, who still supported her father, feared to leave him, and also feared to
venture alone to such a distance, she knew not whither, or to whom. Something,
however, it was necessary to determine upon immediately; St. Aubert, therefore,
told Michael to proceed slowly; but they had not gone far, when he fainted, and
the carriage was again stopped. He lay quite senseless.—“My dear,
dear father!” cried Emily in great agony, who began to fear that he was
dying, “speak, if it is only one word to let me hear the sound of your
voice!” But no voice spoke in reply. In the agony of terror she bade
Michael bring water from the rivulet, that flowed along the road; and, having
received some in the man’s hat, with trembling hands she sprinkled it
over her father’s face, which, as the moon’s rays now fell upon it,
seemed to bear the impression of death. Every emotion of selfish fear now gave
way to a stronger influence, and, committing St. Aubert to the care of Michael,
who refused to go far from his mules, she stepped from the carriage in search
of the château she had seen at a distance. It was a still moonlight night, and
the music, which yet sounded on the air, directed her steps from the high road,
up a shadowy lane, that led to the woods. Her mind was for some time so
entirely occupied by anxiety and terror for her father, that she felt none for
herself, till the deepening gloom of the overhanging foliage, which now wholly
excluded the moonlight, and the wildness of the place, recalled her to a sense
of her adventurous situation. The music had ceased, and she had no guide but
chance. For a moment she paused in terrified perplexity, till a sense of her
father’s condition again overcoming every consideration for herself, she
proceeded. The lane terminated in the woods, but she looked round in vain for a
house, or a human being, and as vainly listened for a sound to guide her. She
hurried on, however, not knowing whither, avoiding the recesses of the woods,
and endeavouring to keep along their margin, till a rude kind of avenue, which
opened upon a moonlight spot, arrested her attention. The wildness of this
avenue brought to her recollection the one leading to the turreted château, and
she was inclined to believe, that this was a part of the same domain, and
probably led to the same point. While she hesitated, whether to follow it or
not, a sound of many voices in loud merriment burst upon her ear. It seemed not
the laugh of cheerfulness, but of riot, and she stood appalled. While she
paused, she heard a distant voice, calling from the way she had come, and not
doubting but it was that of Michael, her first impulse was to hasten back; but
a second thought changed her purpose; she believed that nothing less than the
last extremity could have prevailed with Michael to quit his mules, and fearing
that her father was now dying, she rushed forward, with a feeble hope of
obtaining assistance from the people in the woods. Her heart beat with fearful
expectation, as she drew near the spot whence the voices issued, and she often
startled when her steps disturbed the fallen leaves. The sounds led her towards
the moonlight glade she had before noticed; at a little distance from which
she stopped, and saw, between the boles of the trees, a small circular level of
green turf, surrounded by the woods, on which appeared a group of figures. On
drawing nearer, she distinguished these, by their dress, to be peasants, and
perceived several cottages scattered round the edge of the woods, which waved
loftily over this spot. While she gazed, and endeavoured to overcome the
apprehensions that withheld her steps, several peasant girls came out of a
cottage; music instantly struck up, and the dance began. It was the joyous
music of the vintage—the same she had before heard upon the air. Her
heart, occupied with terror for her father, could not feel the contrast, which
this gay scene offered to her own distress; she stepped hastily forward towards
a group of elder peasants, who were seated at the door of a cottage, and,
having explained her situation, entreated their assistance. Several of them
rose with alacrity, and, offering any service in their power, followed Emily,
who seemed to move on the wind, as fast as they could towards the road.

When she reached the carriage she found St. Aubert restored to animation. On
the recovery of his senses, having heard from Michael whither his daughter was
gone, anxiety for her overcame every regard for himself, and he had sent him in
search of her. He was, however, still languid, and, perceiving himself unable
to travel much farther, he renewed his enquiries for an inn, and concerning the
château in the woods. “The château cannot accommodate you, sir,”
said a venerable peasant who had followed Emily from the woods, “it is
scarcely inhabited; but, if you will do me the honour to visit my cottage, you
shall be welcome to the best bed it affords.”

St. Aubert was himself a Frenchman; he therefore was not surprised at French
courtesy; but, ill as he was, he felt the value of the offer enhanced by the
manner which accompanied it. He had too much delicacy to apologise, or to
appear to hesitate about availing himself of the peasant’s hospitality,
but immediately accepted it with the same frankness with which it was offered.

The carriage again moved slowly on; Michael following the peasants up the lane,
which Emily had just quitted, till they came to the moonlight glade. St.
Aubert’s spirits were so far restored by the courtesy of his host, and
the near prospect of repose, that he looked with a sweet complacency upon the
moonlight scene, surrounded by the shadowy woods, through which, here and
there, an opening admitted the streaming splendour, discovering a cottage, or a
sparkling rivulet. He listened, with no painful emotion, to the merry notes of
the guitar and tamborine; and, though tears came to his eyes, when he saw the
debonnaire dance of the peasants, they were not merely tears of mournful
regret. With Emily it was otherwise; immediate terror for her father had now
subsided into a gentle melancholy, which every note of joy, by awakening
comparison, served to heighten.

The dance ceased on the approach of the carriage, which was a phenomenon in
these sequestered woods, and the peasantry flocked round it with eager
curiosity. On learning that it brought a sick stranger, several girls ran
across the turf, and returned with wine and baskets of grapes, which they
presented to the travellers, each with kind contention pressing for a
preference. At length, the carriage stopped at a neat cottage, and his
venerable conductor, having assisted St. Aubert to alight, led him and Emily to
a small inner room, illuminated only by moonbeams, which the open casement
admitted. St. Aubert, rejoicing in rest, seated himself in an arm-chair, and
his senses were refreshed by the cool and balmy air, that lightly waved the
embowering honeysuckles, and wafted their sweet breath into the apartment. His
host, who was called La Voisin, quitted the room, but soon returned with
fruits, cream, and all the pastoral luxury his cottage afforded; having set
down which, with a smile of unfeigned welcome, he retired behind the chair of
his guest. St. Aubert insisted on his taking a seat at the table, and, when the
fruit had allayed the fever of his palate, and he found himself somewhat
revived, he began to converse with his host, who communicated several
particulars concerning himself and his family, which were interesting, because
they were spoken from the heart, and delineated a picture of the sweet
courtesies of family kindness. Emily sat by her father, holding his hand, and,
while she listened to the old man, her heart swelled with the affectionate
sympathy he described, and her tears fell to the mournful consideration, that
death would probably soon deprive her of the dearest blessing she then
possessed. The soft moonlight of an autumnal evening, and the distant music,
which now sounded a plaintive strain, aided the melancholy of her mind. The old
man continued to talk of his family, and St. Aubert remained silent. “I
have only one daughter living,” said La Voisin, “but she is happily
married, and is everything to me. When I lost my wife,” he added with a
sigh, “I came to live with Agnes, and her family; she has several
children, who are all dancing on the green yonder, as merry as
grasshoppers—and long may they be so! I hope to die among them, monsieur.
I am old now, and cannot expect to live long, but there is some comfort in
dying surrounded by one’s children.”

“My good friend,” said St. Aubert, while his voice trembled,
“I hope you will long live surrounded by them.”

“Ah, sir! at my age I must not expect that!” replied the old man,
and he paused: “I can scarcely wish it,” he resumed, “for I
trust that whenever I die I shall go to heaven, where my poor wife is gone
before me. I can sometimes almost fancy I see her of a still moonlight night,
walking among these shades she loved so well. Do you believe, monsieur, that we
shall be permitted to revisit the earth, after we have quitted the body?”

Emily could no longer stifle the anguish of her heart; her tears fell fast upon
her father’s hand, which she yet held. He made an effort to speak, and at
length said in a low voice, “I hope we shall be permitted to look down on
those we have left on the earth, but I can only hope it. Futurity is much
veiled from our eyes, and faith and hope are our only guides concerning it. We
are not enjoined to believe, that disembodied spirits watch over the friends
they have loved, but we may innocently hope it. It is a hope which I will never
resign,” continued he, while he wiped the tears from his daughter’s
eyes, “it will sweeten the bitter moments of death!” Tears fell
slowly on his cheeks; La Voisin wept too, and there was a pause of silence.
Then, La Voisin, renewing the subject, said, “But you believe, sir, that
we shall meet in another world the relations we have loved in this; I must
believe this.” “Then do believe it,” replied St. Aubert,
“severe, indeed, would be the pangs of separation, if we believed it to
be eternal. Look up, my dear Emily, we shall meet again!” He lifted his
eyes towards heaven, and a gleam of moonlight, which fell upon his
countenance, discovered peace and resignation, stealing on the lines of sorrow.

La Voisin felt that he had pursued the subject too far, and he dropped it,
saying, “We are in darkness, I forgot to bring a light.”

“No,” said St. Aubert, “this is a light I love. Sit down, my
good friend. Emily, my love, I find myself better than I have been all day;
this air refreshes me. I can enjoy this tranquil hour, and that music, which
floats so sweetly at a distance. Let me see you smile. Who touches that guitar
so tastefully? are there two instruments, or is it an echo I hear?”

“It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy. That guitar is often heard at night,
when all is still, but nobody knows who touches it, and it is sometimes
accompanied by a voice so sweet, and so sad, one would almost think the woods
were haunted.” “They certainly are haunted,” said St. Aubert
with a smile, “but I believe it is by mortals.” “I have
sometimes heard it at midnight, when I could not sleep,” rejoined La
Voisin, not seeming to notice this remark, “almost under my window, and I
never heard any music like it. It has often made me think of my poor wife till
I cried. I have sometimes got up to the window to look if I could see anybody,
but as soon as I opened the casement all was hushed, and nobody to be seen; and
I have listened, and listened till I have been so timorous, that even the
trembling of the leaves in the breeze has made me start. They say it often
comes to warn people of their death, but I have heard it these many years, and
outlived the warning.”

Emily, though she smiled at the mention of this ridiculous superstition, could
not, in the present tone of her spirits, wholly resist its contagion.

“Well, but, my good friend,” said St. Aubert, “has nobody had
courage to follow the sounds? If they had, they would probably have discovered
who is the musician.” “Yes, sir, they have followed them some way
into the woods, but the music has still retreated, and seemed as distant as
ever, and the people have at last been afraid of being led into harm, and would
go no further. It is very seldom that I have heard these sounds so early in the
evening. They usually come about midnight, when that bright planet, which is
rising above the turret yonder, sets below the woods on the left.”

“What turret?” asked St. Aubert with quickness, “I see
none.”

“Your pardon, monsieur, you do see one indeed, for the moon shines full
upon it;—up the avenue yonder, a long way off; the château it belongs to
is hid among the trees.”

“Yes, my dear sir,” said Emily, pointing, “don’t you
see something glitter above the dark woods? It is a fane, I fancy, which the
rays fall upon.”

“O yes, I see what you mean; and who does the château belong to?”

“The Marquis de Villeroi was its owner,” replied La Voisin,
emphatically.

“Ah!” said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh, “are we then so near
Le-Blanc!” He appeared much agitated.

“It used to be the Marquis’s favourite residence,” resumed La
Voisin, “but he took a dislike to the place, and has not been there for
many years. We have heard lately that he is dead, and that it is fallen into
other hands.” St. Aubert, who had sat in deep musing, was roused by the
last words. “Dead!” he exclaimed, “Good God! when did he
die?”

“He is reported to have died about five weeks since,” replied La
Voisin. “Did you know the Marquis, sir?”

“This is very extraordinary!” said St. Aubert without attending to
the question. “Why is it so, my dear sir?” said Emily, in a voice
of timid curiosity. He made no reply, but sunk again into a reverie; and in a
few moments, when he seemed to have recovered himself, asked who had succeeded
to the estates. “I have forgot his title, monsieur,” said La
Voisin; “but my lord resides at Paris chiefly; I hear no talk of his
coming hither.”

“The château is shut up then, still?”

“Why, little better, sir; the old housekeeper, and her husband the
steward, have the care of it, but they live generally in a cottage hard
by.”

“The château is spacious, I suppose,” said Emily, “and must
be desolate for the residence of only two persons.”

“Desolate enough, mademoiselle,” replied La Voisin, “I would
not pass one night in the château, for the value of the whole domain.”

“What is that?” said St. Aubert, roused again from thoughtfulness.
As his host repeated his last sentence, a groan escaped from St. Aubert, and
then, as if anxious to prevent it from being noticed, he hastily asked La
Voisin how long he had lived in this neighbourhood. “Almost from my
childhood, sir,” replied his host.

“You remember the late marchioness, then?” said St. Aubert in an
altered voice.

“Ah, monsieur!—that I do well. There are many besides me who
remember her.”

“Yes—” said St. Aubert, “and I am one of those.”

“Alas, sir! you remember, then, a most beautiful and excellent lady. She
deserved a better fate.”

Tears stood in St. Aubert’s eyes; “Enough,” said he, in a
voice almost stifled by the violence of his emotions,—“it is
enough, my friend.”

Emily, though extremely surprised by her father’s manner, forbore to
express her feelings by any question. La Voisin began to apologise, but St.
Aubert interrupted him; “Apology is quite unnecessary,” said he,
“let us change the topic. You were speaking of the music we just now
heard.”

“I was, monsieur—but hark!—it comes again; listen to that
voice!” They were all silent;

At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound
Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes,
And stole upon the air, that even Silence
Was took ere she was ’ware, and wished she might
Deny her nature, and be never more
Still, to be so displaced.
                    MILTON.

In a few moments the voice died into air, and the instrument, which had been
heard before, sounded in low symphony. St. Aubert now observed, that it
produced a tone much more full and melodious than that of a guitar, and still
more melancholy and soft than the lute. They continued to listen, but the
sounds returned no more. “This is strange!” said St. Aubert, at
length interrupting the silence. “Very strange!” said Emily.
“It is so,” rejoined La Voisin, and they were again silent.

After a long pause, “It is now about eighteen years since I first heard
that music,” said La Voisin; “I remember it was on a fine
summer’s night, much like this, but later, that I was walking in the
woods, and alone. I remember, too, that my spirits were very low, for one of my
boys was ill, and we feared we should lose him. I had been watching at his
bedside all the evening while his mother slept; for she had sat up with him
the night before. I had been watching, and went out for a little fresh air, the
day had been very sultry. As I walked under the shades and mused, I heard music
at a distance, and thought it was Claude playing upon his flute, as he often
did of a fine evening, at the cottage door. But, when I came to a place where
the trees opened, (I shall never forget it!) and stood looking up at the
north-lights, which shot up the heaven to a great height, I heard all of a
sudden such sounds!—they came so as I cannot describe. It was like the
music of angels, and I looked up again almost expecting to see them in the sky.
When I came home, I told what I had heard, but they laughed at me, and said it
must be some of the shepherds playing on their pipes, and I could not persuade
them to the contrary. A few nights after, however, my wife herself heard the
same sounds, and was as much surprised as I was, and Father Denis frightened
her sadly by saying, that it was music come to warn her of her child’s
death, and that music often came to houses where there was a dying
person.”

Emily, on hearing this, shrunk with a superstitious dread entirely new to her,
and could scarcely conceal her agitation from St. Aubert.

“But the boy lived, monsieur, in spite of Father Denis.”

“Father Denis!” said St. Aubert, who had listened to
‘narrative old age’ with patient attention, “are we near a
convent, then?”

“Yes, sir; the convent of St. Clair stands at no great distance, on the
sea shore yonder.”

“Ah!” said St. Aubert, as if struck with some sudden remembrance,
“the convent of St. Clair!” Emily observed the clouds of grief,
mingled with a faint expression of horror, gathering on his brow; his
countenance became fixed, and, touched as it now was by the silver whiteness of
the moonlight, he resembled one of those marble statues of a monument, which
seem to bend, in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes of the dead, shown

by the blunted light
That the dim moon through painted casements lends.
                    THE EMIGRANTS.

“But, my dear sir,” said Emily, anxious to dissipate his thoughts,
“you forget that repose is necessary to you. If our kind host will give
me leave, I will prepare your bed, for I know how you like it to be
made.” St. Aubert, recollecting himself, and smiling affectionately,
desired she would not add to her fatigue by that attention; and La Voisin,
whose consideration for his guest had been suspended by the interests which his
own narrative had recalled, now started from his seat, and, apologising for not
having called Agnes from the green, hurried out of the room.

In a few moments he returned with his daughter, a young woman of pleasing
countenance, and Emily learned from her, what she had not before suspected,
that, for their accommodation, it was necessary part of La Voisin’s
family should leave their beds; she lamented this circumstance, but Agnes, by
her reply, fully proved that she inherited, at least, a share of her
father’s courteous hospitality. It was settled, that some of her children
and Michael should sleep in the neighbouring cottage.

“If I am better, tomorrow, my dear,” said St. Aubert when Emily
returned to him, “I mean to set out at an early hour, that we may rest,
during the heat of the day, and will travel towards home. In the present state
of my health and spirits I cannot look on a longer journey with pleasure, and I
am also very anxious to reach La Vallée.” Emily, though she also desired
to return, was grieved at her father’s sudden wish to do so, which she
thought indicated a greater degree of indisposition than he would acknowledge.
St. Aubert now retired to rest, and Emily to her little chamber, but not to
immediate repose. Her thoughts returned to the late conversation, concerning
the state of departed spirits; a subject, at this time, particularly affecting
to her, when she had every reason to believe that her dear father would ere
long be numbered with them. She leaned pensively on the little open casement,
and in deep thought fixed her eyes on the heaven, whose blue unclouded concave
was studded thick with stars, the worlds, perhaps, of spirits, unsphered of
mortal mould. As her eyes wandered along the boundless æther, her thoughts
rose, as before, towards the sublimity of the Deity, and to the contemplation
of futurity. No busy note of this world interrupted the course of her mind; the
merry dance had ceased, and every cottager had retired to his home. The still
air seemed scarcely to breathe upon the woods, and, now and then, the distant
sound of a solitary sheep-bell, or of a closing casement, was all that broke on
silence. At length, even this hint of human being was heard no more. Elevated
and enwrapt, while her eyes were often wet with tears of sublime devotion and
solemn awe, she continued at the casement, till the gloom of midnight hung
over the earth, and the planet, which La Voisin had pointed out, sunk below the
woods. She then recollected what he had said concerning this planet, and the
mysterious music; and, as she lingered at the window, half hoping and half
fearing that it would return, her mind was led to the remembrance of the
extreme emotion her father had shown on mention of the Marquis La
Villeroi’s death, and of the fate of the Marchioness, and she felt
strongly interested concerning the remote cause of this emotion. Her surprise
and curiosity were indeed the greater, because she did not recollect ever to
have heard him mention the name of Villeroi.

No music, however, stole on the silence of the night, and Emily, perceiving the
lateness of the hour, returned to a scene of fatigue, remembered that she was
to rise early in the morning, and withdrew from the window to repose.

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 sunbeams 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 anything 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 Vallée, 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 château, 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
château.” St. Aubert even enjoined her, whenever she might marry, to make
it an article in the contract, that the château 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 anything he now said, but knelt at the bedside, 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 showing 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, nor 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.

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 sunset, La Voisin showed 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 characterised 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 Vallée. “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 château 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 sunset.”

“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 château, 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 château,
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 château 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 were 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
château,” said Emily suddenly, “and are, therefore,
superstitious.” “It may be so, ma’amselle, but there are
other circumstances, belonging to that château, 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 Vallée, 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 Vallée to Thoulouse, 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 Vallée. 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 château. 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 staircase, 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 staircase,
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
moonlight, 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 moonlight, 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 farewell, 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 Vallée, 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 château, these melancholy memorials of past times
multiplied. At length, the château 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 château, 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 château, 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 château 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. “Tomorrow 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 everything
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 château, 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 château 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 grey 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 château, and Theresa lighted her across the hall into the
common sitting parlour, where she had laid the cloth, with one solitary knife
and fork, for supper. Emily was in the room before she perceived that it was
not her own apartment, but she checked the emotion which inclined her to leave
it, and seated herself quietly by the little supper table. Her father’s
hat hung upon the opposite wall; while she gazed at it, a faintness came over
her. Theresa looked at her, and then at the object, on which her eyes were
settled, and went to remove it; but Emily waved her
hand—“No,” said she, “let it remain. I am going to my
chamber.” “Nay, ma’amselle, supper is ready.” “I
cannot take it,” replied Emily, “I will go to my room, and try to
sleep. Tomorrow I shall be better.”

“This is poor doings!” said Theresa. “Dear lady! do take some
food! I have dressed a pheasant, and a fine one it is. Old Monsieur Barreaux
sent it this morning, for I saw him yesterday, and told him you were coming.
And I know nobody that seemed more concerned, when he heard the sad news, then
he.”

“Did he?” said Emily, in a tender voice, while she felt her poor
heart warmed for a moment by a ray of sympathy.

At length, her spirits were entirely overcome, and she retired to her room.

CHAPTER IX

Can Music’s voice, can Beauty’s eye,
Can Painting’s glowing hand supply
A charm so suited to my mind,
As blows this hollow gust of wind?
As drops this little weeping rill,
Soft tinkling down the moss-grown hill;
While, through the west, where sinks the crimson day,
Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners grey?
                    MASON

Emily, some time after her return to La Vallée, received letters from her aunt,
Madame Cheron, in which, after some common-place condolement and advice, she
invited her to Thoulouse, 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 Vallée,
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 Vallée, 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 quality 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,
“everything—everything 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 apologise 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 château, 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 Estuvière 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.

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 reanimated 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 characterised 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 château. 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 château, 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 Vallée 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
Thoulouse, 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 a 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 shown to quit La Vallée, 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 château, 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 a 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 Thoulouse; 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 Vallée.”

“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 château, 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 control the capricious humour of the
moment.

On entering the château, Madame Cheron expressed a desire, that she would put
up what she thought necessary to take to Thoulouse, 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 Vallée. 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, it was all safe.
She started, on observing her young lady, who bade her come in, and then gave
her some directions for keeping the château 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 château, lingering long in what had been her father’s bedroom,
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, shown 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
farewell 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 æther, 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 château. 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 moonlight 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 château, 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.

CHAPTER XI

I leave that flowery path for eye
Of childhood, where I sported many a day,
Warbling and sauntering carelessly along;
Where every face was innocent and gay,
Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue—
Sweet, wild, and artless, all.
                    THE MINSTREL

At an early hour, the carriage, which was to take Emily and Madame Cheron to
Thoulouse, appeared at the door of the château, and Madame was already in the
breakfast-room, when her niece entered it. The repast was silent and melancholy
on the part of Emily; and Madame Cheron, whose vanity was piqued on observing
her dejection, reproved her in a manner that did not contribute to remove it.
It was with much reluctance, that Emily’s request to take with her the
dog, which had been a favourite of her father, was granted. Her aunt, impatient
to be gone, ordered the carriage to draw up; and, while she passed to the hall
door, Emily gave another look into the library, and another farewell glance
over the garden, and then followed. Old Theresa stood at the door to take leave
of her young lady. “God for ever keep you, ma’amselle!” said
she, while Emily gave her hand in silence, and could answer only with a
pressure of her hand, and a forced smile.

At the gate, which led out of the grounds, several of her father’s
pensioners were assembled to bid her farewell, to whom she would have spoken,
if her aunt would have suffered the driver to stop; and, having distributed to
them almost all the money she had about her, she sunk back in the carriage,
yielding to the melancholy of her heart. Soon after, she caught, between the
steep banks of the road, another view of the château, peeping from among the
high trees, and surrounded by green slopes and tufted groves, the Garonne
winding its way beneath their shades, sometimes lost among the vineyards, and
then rising in greater majesty in the distant pastures. The towering precipices
of the Pyrenees, that rose to the south, gave Emily a thousand interesting
recollections of her late journey; and these objects of her former enthusiastic
admiration, now excited only sorrow and regret. Having gazed on the château and
its lovely scenery, till the banks again closed upon them, her mind became too
much occupied by mournful reflections, to permit her to attend to the
conversation, which Madame Cheron had begun on some trivial topic, so that they
soon travelled in profound silence.

Valancourt, meanwhile, was returned to Estuvière, his heart occupied with the
image of Emily; sometimes indulging in reveries of future happiness, but more
frequently shrinking with dread of the opposition he might encounter from her
family. He was the younger son of an ancient family of Gascony; and, having
lost his parents at an early period of his life, the care of his education and
of his small portion had devolved to his brother, the Count de Duvarney, his
senior by nearly twenty years. Valancourt had been educated in all the
accomplishments of his age, and had an ardour of spirit, and a certain grandeur
of mind, that gave him particular excellence in the exercises then thought
heroic. His little fortune had been diminished by the necessary expences of his
education; but M. La Valancourt, the elder, seemed to think that his genius and
accomplishments would amply supply the deficiency of his inheritance. They
offered flattering hopes of promotion in the military profession, in those
times almost the only one in which a gentleman could engage without incurring a
stain on his name; and La Valancourt was of course enrolled in the army. The
general genius of his mind was but little understood by his brother. That
ardour for whatever is great and good in the moral world, as well as in the
natural one, displayed itself in his infant years; and the strong indignation,
which he felt and expressed at a criminal, or a mean action, sometimes drew
upon him the displeasure of his tutor; who reprobated it under the general term
of violence of temper; and who, when haranguing on the virtues of mildness and
moderation, seemed to forget the gentleness and compassion, which always
appeared in his pupil towards objects of misfortune.

He had now obtained leave of absence from his regiment when he made the
excursion into the Pyrenees, which was the means of introducing him to St.
Aubert; and, as this permission was nearly expired, he was the more anxious to
declare himself to Emily’s family, from whom he reasonably apprehended
opposition, since his fortune, though, with a moderate addition from hers, it
would be sufficient to support them, would not satisfy the views, either of
vanity, or ambition. Valancourt was not without the latter, but he saw golden
visions of promotion in the army; and believed, that with Emily he could, in
the mean time, be delighted to live within the limits of his humble income. His
thoughts were now occupied in considering the means of making himself known to
her family, to whom, however, he had yet no address, for he was entirely
ignorant of Emily’s precipitate departure from La Vallée, of whom he
hoped to obtain it.

Meanwhile, the travellers pursued their journey; Emily making frequent efforts
to appear cheerful, and too often relapsing into silence and dejection. Madame
Cheron, attributing her melancholy solely to the circumstance of her being
removed to a distance from her lover, and believing, that the sorrow, which her
niece still expressed for the loss of St. Aubert, proceeded partly from an
affectation of sensibility, endeavoured to make it appear ridiculous to her,
that such deep regret should continue to be felt so long after the period
usually allowed for grief.

At length, these unpleasant lectures were interrupted by the arrival of the
travellers at Thoulouse; and Emily, who had not been there for many years, and
had only a very faint recollection of it, was surprised at the ostentatious
style exhibited in her aunt’s house and furniture; the more so, perhaps,
because it was so totally different from the modest elegance, to which she had
been accustomed. She followed Madame Cheron through a large hall, where several
servants in rich liveries appeared, to a kind of saloon, fitted up with more
show than taste; and her aunt, complaining of fatigue, ordered supper
immediately. “I am glad to find myself in my own house again,” said
she, throwing herself on a large settee, “and to have my own people about
me. I detest travelling; though, indeed, I ought to like it, for what I see
abroad always makes me delighted to return to my own château. What makes you so
silent, child?—What is it that disturbs you now?”

Emily suppressed a starting tear, and tried to smile away the expression of an
oppressed heart; she was thinking of her home, and felt too sensibly the
arrogance and ostentatious vanity of Madame Cheron’s conversation.
“Can this be my father’s sister!” said she to herself; and
then the conviction that she was so, warming her heart with something like
kindness towards her, she felt anxious to soften the harsh impression her mind
had received of her aunt’s character, and to show a willingness to oblige
her. The effort did not entirely fail; she listened with apparent cheerfulness,
while Madame Cheron expatiated on the splendour of her house, told of the
numerous parties she entertained, and what she should expect of Emily, whose
diffidence assumed the air of a reserve, which her aunt, believing it to be
that of pride and ignorance united, now took occasion to reprehend. She knew
nothing of the conduct of a mind, that fears to trust its own powers; which,
possessing a nice judgment, and inclining to believe, that every other person
perceives still more critically, fears to commit itself to censure, and seeks
shelter in the obscurity of silence. Emily had frequently blushed at the
fearless manners, which she had seen admired, and the brilliant nothings, which
she had heard applauded; yet this applause, so far from encouraging her to
imitate the conduct that had won it, rather made her shrink into the reserve,
that would protect her from such absurdity.

Madame Cheron looked on her niece’s diffidence with a feeling very near
to contempt, and endeavoured to overcome it by reproof, rather than to
encourage it by gentleness.

The entrance of supper somewhat interrupted the complacent discourse of Madame
Cheron and the painful considerations, which it had forced upon Emily. When the
repast, which was rendered ostentatious by the attendance of a great number of
servants, and by a profusion of plate, was over, Madame Cheron retired to her
chamber, and a female servant came to show Emily to hers. Having passed up a
large staircase, and through several galleries, they came to a flight of back
stairs, which led into a short passage in a remote part of the château, and
there the servant opened the door of a small chamber, which she said was
Ma’amselle Emily’s, who, once more alone, indulged the tears she
had long tried to restrain.

Those, who know, from experience, how much the heart becomes attached even to
inanimate objects, to which it has been long accustomed, how unwillingly it
resigns them; how with the sensations of an old friend it meets them, after
temporary absence, will understand the forlornness of Emily’s feelings,
of Emily shut out from the only home she had known from her infancy, and thrown
upon a scene, and among persons, disagreeable for more qualities than their
novelty. Her father’s favourite dog, now in the chamber, thus seemed to
acquire the character and importance of a friend; and, as the animal fawned
over her when she wept, and licked her hands, “Ah, poor Manchon!”
said she, “I have nobody now to love me—but you!” and she
wept the more. After some time, her thoughts returning to her father’s
injunctions, she remembered how often he had blamed her for indulging useless
sorrow; how often he had pointed out to her the necessity of fortitude and
patience, assuring her, that the faculties of the mind strengthen by exertion,
till they finally unnerve affliction, and triumph over it. These recollections
dried her tears, gradually soothed her spirits, and inspired her with the sweet
emulation of practising precepts, which her father had so frequently
inculcated.

CHAPTER XII

Some pow’r impart the spear and shield,
At which the wizard passions fly,
By which the giant follies die!
                    COLLINS

Madame Cheron’s house stood at a little distance from the city of
Thoulouse, and was surrounded by extensive gardens, in which Emily, who had
risen early, amused herself with wandering before breakfast. From a terrace,
that extended along the highest part of them, was a wide view over Languedoc.
On the distant horizon to the south, she discovered the wild summits of the
Pyrenees, and her fancy immediately painted the green pastures of Gascony at
their feet. Her heart pointed to her peaceful home—to the neighbourhood
where Valancourt was—where St. Aubert had been; and her imagination,
piercing the veil of distance, brought that home to her eyes in all its
interesting and romantic beauty. She experienced an inexpressible pleasure in
believing, that she beheld the country around it, though no feature could be
distinguished, except the retiring chain of the Pyrenees; and, inattentive to
the scene immediately before her, and to the flight of time, she continued to
lean on the window of a pavilion, that terminated the terrace, with her eyes
fixed on Gascony, and her mind occupied with the interesting ideas which the
view of it awakened, till a servant came to tell her breakfast was ready. Her
thoughts thus recalled to the surrounding objects, the straight walks, square
parterres, and artificial fountains of the garden, could not fail, as she
passed through it, to appear the worse, opposed to the negligent graces, and
natural beauties of the grounds of La Vallée, upon which her recollection had
been so intensely employed.

“Whither have you been rambling so early?” said Madame Cheron, as
her niece entered the breakfast-room. “I don’t approve of these
solitary walks.” And Emily was surprised, when, having informed her aunt,
that she had been no further than the gardens, she understood these to be
included in the reproof. “I desire you will not walk there again at so
early an hour unattended,” said Madame Cheron; “my gardens are very
extensive; and a young woman, who can make assignations by moonlight at La
Vallée, is not to be trusted to her own inclinations elsewhere.”

Emily, extremely surprised and shocked, had scarcely power to beg an
explanation of these words, and, when she did, her aunt absolutely refused to
give it, though, by her severe looks, and half sentences, she appeared anxious
to impress Emily with a belief, that she was well informed of some degrading
circumstances of her conduct. Conscious innocence could not prevent a blush
from stealing over Emily’s cheek; she trembled, and looked confusedly
under the bold eye of Madame Cheron, who blushed also; but hers was the blush
of triumph, such as sometimes stains the countenance of a person,
congratulating himself on the penetration which had taught him to suspect
another, and who loses both pity for the supposed criminal, and indignation of
his guilt, in the gratification of his own vanity.

Emily, not doubting that her aunt’s mistake arose from the having
observed her ramble in the garden on the night preceding her departure from La
Vallée, now mentioned the motive of it, at which Madame Cheron smiled
contemptuously, refusing either to accept this explanation, or to give her
reasons for refusing it; and, soon after, she concluded the subject by saying,
“I never trust people’s assertions, I always judge of them by their
actions; but I am willing to try what will be your behaviour in future.”

Emily, less surprised by her aunt’s moderation and mysterious silence,
than by the accusation she had received, deeply considered the latter, and
scarcely doubted, that it was Valancourt whom she had seen at night in the
gardens of La Vallée, and that he had been observed there by Madame Cheron; who
now passing from one painful topic only to revive another almost equally so,
spoke of the situation of her niece’s property, in the hands of M.
Motteville. While she thus talked with ostentatious pity of Emily’s
misfortunes, she failed not to inculcate the duties of humility and gratitude,
or to render Emily fully sensible of every cruel mortification, who soon
perceived, that she was to be considered as a dependant, not only by her aunt,
but by her aunt’s servants.

She was now informed, that a large party were expected to dinner, on which
account Madame Cheron repeated the lesson of the preceding night, concerning
her conduct in company, and Emily wished that she might have courage enough to
practise it. Her aunt then proceeded to examine the simplicity of her dress,
adding, that she expected to see her attired with gaiety and taste; after which
she condescended to show Emily the splendour of her château, and to point out
the particular beauty, or elegance, which she thought distinguished each of her
numerous suites of apartments. She then withdrew to her toilet, the throne of
her homage, and Emily to her chamber, to unpack her books, and to try to charm
her mind by reading, till the hour of dressing.

When the company arrived, Emily entered the saloon with an air of timidity,
which all her efforts could not overcome, and which was increased by the
consciousness of Madame Cheron’s severe observation. Her mourning dress,
the mild dejection of her beautiful countenance, and the retiring diffidence of
her manner, rendered her a very interesting object to many of the company;
among whom she distinguished Signor Montoni, and his friend Cavigni, the late
visitors at M. Quesnel’s, who now seemed to converse with Madame Cheron
with the familiarity of old acquaintance, and she to attend to them with
particular pleasure.

This Signor Montoni had an air of conscious superiority, animated by spirit,
and strengthened by talents, to which every person seemed involuntarily to
yield. The quickness of his perceptions was strikingly expressed on his
countenance, yet that countenance could submit implicitly to occasion; and,
more than once in this day, the triumph of art over nature might have been
discerned in it. His visage was long, and rather narrow, yet he was called
handsome; and it was, perhaps, the spirit and vigour of his soul, sparkling
through his features, that triumphed for him. Emily felt admiration, but not
the admiration that leads to esteem; for it was mixed with a degree of fear she
knew not exactly wherefore.

Cavigni was gay and insinuating as formerly; and, though he paid almost
incessant attention to Madame Cheron, he found some opportunities of conversing
with Emily, to whom he directed, at first, the sallies of his wit, but now and
then assumed an air of tenderness, which she observed, and shrunk from. Though
she replied but little, the gentleness and sweetness of her manners encouraged
him to talk, and she felt relieved when a young lady of the party, who spoke
incessantly, obtruded herself on his notice. This lady, who possessed all the
sprightliness of a Frenchwoman, with all her coquetry, affected to understand
every subject, or rather there was no affectation in the case; for, never
looking beyond the limits of her own ignorance, she believed she had nothing to
learn. She attracted notice from all; amused some, disgusted others for a
moment, and was then forgotten.

This day passed without any material occurrence; and Emily, though amused by
the characters she had seen, was glad when she could retire to the
recollections, which had acquired with her the character of duties.

A fortnight passed in a round of dissipation and company, and Emily, who
attended Madame Cheron in all her visits, was sometimes entertained, but
oftener wearied. She was struck by the apparent talents and knowledge displayed
in the various conversations she listened to, and it was long before she
discovered, that the talents were for the most part those of imposture, and the
knowledge nothing more than was necessary to assist them. But what deceived her
most, was the air of constant gaiety and good spirits, displayed by every
visitor, and which she supposed to arise from content as constant, and from
benevolence as ready. At length, from the over-acting of some, less
accomplished than the others, she could perceive, that, though contentment and
benevolence are the only sure sources of cheerfulness, the immoderate and
feverish animation, usually exhibited in large parties, results partly from an
insensibility to the cares, which benevolence must sometimes derive from the
sufferings of others, and partly from a desire to display the appearance of
that prosperity, which they know will command submission and attention to
themselves.

Emily’s pleasantest hours were passed in the pavilion of the terrace, to
which she retired, when she could steal from observation, with a book to
overcome, or a lute to indulge, her melancholy. There, as she sat with her eyes
fixed on the far-distant Pyrenees, and her thoughts on Valancourt and the
beloved scenes of Gascony, she would play the sweet and melancholy songs of her
native province—the popular songs she had listened to from her childhood.

One evening, having excused herself from accompanying her aunt abroad, she thus
withdrew to the pavilion, with books and her lute. It was the mild and
beautiful evening of a sultry day, and the windows, which fronted the west,
opened upon all the glory of a setting sun. Its rays illuminated, with strong
splendour, the cliffs of the Pyrenees, and touched their snowy tops with a
roseate hue, that remained, long after the sun had sunk below the horizon, and
the shades of twilight had stolen over the landscape. Emily touched her lute
with that fine melancholy expression, which came from her heart. The pensive
hour and the scene, the evening light on the Garonne, that flowed at no great
distance, and whose waves, as they passed towards La Vallée, she often viewed
with a sigh—these united circumstances disposed her mind to tenderness,
and her thoughts were with Valancourt, of whom she had heard nothing since her
arrival at Thoulouse, and now that she was removed from him, and in uncertainty,
she perceived all the interest he held in her heart. Before she saw Valancourt
she had never met a mind and taste so accordant with her own, and, though
Madame Cheron told her much of the arts of dissimulation, and that the elegance
and propriety of thought, which she so much admired in her lover, were assumed
for the purpose of pleasing her, she could scarcely doubt their truth. This
possibility, however, faint as it was, was sufficient to harass her mind with
anxiety, and she found, that few conditions are more painful than that of
uncertainty, as to the merit of a beloved object; an uncertainty, which she
would not have suffered, had her confidence in her own opinions been greater.

She was awakened from her musing by the sound of horses’ feet along a
road, that wound under the windows of the pavilion, and a gentleman passed on
horseback, whose resemblance to Valancourt, in air and figure, for the twilight
did not permit a view of his features, immediately struck her. She retired
hastily from the lattice, fearing to be seen, yet wishing to observe further,
while the stranger passed on without looking up, and, when she returned to the
lattice, she saw him faintly through the twilight, winding under the high
trees, that led to Thoulouse. This little incident so much disturbed her
spirits, that the temple and its scenery were no longer interesting to her,
and, after walking a while on the terrace, she returned to the château.

Madame Cheron, whether she had seen a rival admired, had lost at play, or had
witnessed an entertainment more splendid than her own, was returned from her
visit with a temper more than usually discomposed; and Emily was glad, when the
hour arrived, in which she could retire to the solitude of her own apartment.

On the following morning, she was summoned to Madame Cheron, whose countenance
was inflamed with resentment, and, as Emily advanced, she held out a letter to
her.

“Do you know this hand?” said she, in a severe tone, and with a
look that was intended to search her heart, while Emily examined the letter
attentively, and assured her, that she did not.

“Do not provoke me,” said her aunt; “you do know it, confess
the truth immediately. I insist upon your confessing the truth
instantly.”

Emily was silent, and turned to leave the room, but Madame called her back.
“O you are guilty, then,” said she, “you do know the
hand.” “If you were before in doubt of this, madam,” replied
Emily calmly, “why did you accuse me of having told a falsehood.”
Madame Cheron did not blush; but her niece did, a moment after, when she heard
the name of Valancourt. It was not, however, with the consciousness of
deserving reproof, for, if she ever had seen his hand-writing, the present
characters did not bring it to her recollection.

“It is useless to deny it,” said Madame Cheron, “I see in
your countenance, that you are no stranger to this letter; and, I dare say, you
have received many such from this impertinent young man, without my knowledge,
in my own house.”

Emily, shocked at the indelicacy of this accusation, still more than by the
vulgarity of the former, instantly forgot the pride, that had imposed silence,
and endeavoured to vindicate herself from the aspersion, but Madame Cheron was
not to be convinced.

“I cannot suppose,” she resumed, “that this young man would
have taken the liberty of writing to me, if you had not encouraged him to do
so, and I must now”

“You will allow me to remind you, madam,” said Emily timidly,
“of some particulars of a conversation we had at La Vallée. I then told
you truly, that I had only not forbade Monsieur Valancourt from addressing my
family.”

“I will not be interrupted,” said Madame Cheron, interrupting her
niece, “I was going to say—I—I—have forgot what I was
going to say. But how happened it that you did not forbid him?” Emily was
silent. “How happened it that you encouraged him to trouble me with this
letter?—A young man that nobody knows;—an utter stranger in the
place,—a young adventurer, no doubt, who is looking out for a good
fortune. However, on that point he has mistaken his aim.”

“His family was known to my father,” said Emily modestly, and
without appearing to be sensible of the last sentence.

“O! that is no recommendation at all,” replied her aunt, with her
usual readiness upon this topic; “he took such strange fancies to people!
He was always judging persons by their countenances, and was continually
deceived.”

“Yet it was but now, madam, that you judged me guilty by my
countenance,” said Emily, with a design of reproving Madame Cheron, to
which she was induced by this disrespectful mention of her father.

“I called you here,” resumed her aunt, colouring, “to tell
you, that I will not be disturbed in my own house by any letters, or visits
from young men, who may take a fancy to flatter you. This M. de
Valantine—I think you call him, has the impertinence to beg I will permit
him to pay his respects to me! I shall send him a proper answer. And for you,
Emily, I repeat it once for all—if you are not contented to conform to my
directions, and to my way of live, I shall give up the task of overlooking your
conduct—I shall no longer trouble myself with your education, but shall
send you to board in a convent.”

“Dear madam,” said Emily, bursting into tears, and overcome by the
rude suspicions her aunt had expressed, “how have I deserved these
reproofs?” She could say no more; and so very fearful was she of acting
with any degree of impropriety in the affair itself, that, at the present
moment, Madame Cheron might perhaps have prevailed with her to bind herself by
a promise to renounce Valancourt for ever. Her mind, weakened by her terrors,
would no longer suffer her to view him as she had formerly done; she feared the
error of her own judgment, not that of Madame Cheron, and feared also, that, in
her former conversation with him, at La Vallée, she had not conducted herself
with sufficient reserve. She knew, that she did not deserve the coarse
suspicions, which her aunt had thrown out, but a thousand scruples rose to
torment her, such as would never have disturbed the peace of Madame Cheron.
Thus rendered anxious to avoid every opportunity of erring, and willing to
submit to any restrictions, that her aunt should think proper, she expressed an
obedience, to which Madame Cheron did not give much confidence, and which she
seemed to consider as the consequence of either fear, or artifice.

“Well, then,” said she, “promise me that you will neither see
this young man, nor write to him without my consent.” “Dear
madam,” replied Emily, “can you suppose I would do either, unknown
to you!” “I don’t know what to suppose; there is no knowing
how young women will act. It is difficult to place any confidence in them, for
they have seldom sense enough to wish for the respect of the world.”

“Alas, madam!” said Emily, “I am anxious for my own respect;
my father taught me the value of that; he said if I deserved my own esteem,
that the world would follow of course.”

“My brother was a good kind of a man,” replied Madame Cheron,
“but he did not know the world. I am sure I have always felt a proper
respect for myself, yet—” she stopped, but she might have added,
that the world had not always shown respect to her, and this without impeaching
its judgment.

“Well!” resumed Madame Cheron, “you have not given me the
promise, though, that I demand.”

Emily readily gave it, and, being then suffered to withdraw, she walked in the
garden; tried to compose her spirits, and, at length, arrived at her favourite
pavilion at the end of the terrace, where, seating herself at one of the
embowered windows, that opened upon a balcony, the stillness and seclusion of
the scene allowed her to recollect her thoughts, and to arrange them so as to
form a clearer judgment of her former conduct. She endeavoured to review with
exactness all the particulars of her conversation with Valancourt at La Vallée,
had the satisfaction to observe nothing, that could alarm her delicate pride,
and thus to be confirmed in the self-esteem, which was so necessary to her
peace. Her mind then became tranquil, and she saw Valancourt amiable and
intelligent, as he had formerly appeared, and Madame Cheron neither the one, nor
the other. The remembrance of her lover, however, brought with it many very
painful emotions, for it by no means reconciled her to the thought of resigning
him; and, Madame Cheron having already shown how highly she disapproved of the
attachment, she foresaw much suffering from the opposition of interests; yet
with all this was mingled a degree of delight, which, in spite of reason,
partook of hope. She determined, however, that no consideration should induce
her to permit a clandestine correspondence, and to observe in her conversation
with Valancourt, should they ever meet again, the same nicety of reserve, which
had hitherto marked her conduct. As she repeated the words—“should
we ever meet again!” she shrunk as if this was a circumstance, which had
never before occurred to her, and tears came to her eyes, which she hastily
dried, for she heard footsteps approaching, and then the door of the pavilion
open, and, on turning, she saw—Valancourt.

An emotion of mingled pleasure, surprise and apprehension pressed so suddenly
upon her heart as almost to overcome her spirits; the colour left her cheeks,
then returned brighter than before, and she was for a moment unable to speak,
or to rise from her chair. His countenance was the mirror, in which she saw her
own emotions reflected, and it roused her to self-command. The joy, which had
animated his features, when he entered the pavilion, was suddenly repressed,
as, approaching, he perceived her agitation, and, in a tremulous voice,
enquired after her health. Recovered from her first surprise, she answered him
with a tempered smile; but a variety of opposite emotions still assailed her
heart, and struggled to subdue the mild dignity of her manner. It was difficult
to tell which predominated—the joy of seeing Valancourt, or the terror of
her aunt’s displeasure, when she should hear of this meeting. After some
short and embarrassed conversation, she led him into the gardens, and enquired
if he had seen Madame Cheron. “No,” said he, “I have not yet
seen her, for they told me she was engaged, and as soon as I learned that you
were in the gardens, I came hither.” He paused a moment, in great
agitation, and then added, “May I venture to tell you the purport of my
visit, without incurring your displeasure, and to hope, that you will not
accuse me of precipitation in now availing myself of the permission you once
gave me of addressing your family?” Emily, who knew not what to reply,
was spared from further perplexity, and was sensible only of fear, when on
raising her eyes, she saw Madame Cheron turn into the avenue. As the
consciousness of innocence returned, this fear was so far dissipated as to
permit her to appear tranquil, and, instead of avoiding her aunt, she advanced
with Valancourt to meet her. The look of haughty and impatient displeasure,
with which Madame Cheron regarded them, made Emily shrink, who understood from
a single glance, that this meeting was believed to have been more than
accidental: having mentioned Valancourt’s name, she became again too much
agitated to remain with them, and returned into the château; where she awaited
long, in a state of trembling anxiety, the conclusion of the conference. She
knew not how to account for Valancourt’s visit to her aunt, before he had
received the permission he solicited, since she was ignorant of a circumstance,
which would have rendered the request useless, even if Madame Cheron had been
inclined to grant it. Valancourt, in the agitation of his spirits, had
forgotten to date his letter, so that it was impossible for Madame Cheron to
return an answer; and, when he recollected this circumstance, he was, perhaps,
not so sorry for the omission as glad of the excuse it allowed him for waiting
on her before she could send a refusal.

Madame Cheron had a long conversation with Valancourt, and, when she returned
to the château, her countenance expressed ill-humour, but not the degree of
severity, which Emily had apprehended. “I have dismissed this young man,
at last,” said she, “and I hope my house will never again be
disturbed with similar visits. He assures me, that your interview was not
preconcerted.”

“Dear madam!” said Emily in extreme emotion, “you surely did
not ask him the question!” “Most certainly I did; you could not
suppose I should be so imprudent as to neglect it.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Emily, “what an opinion must he form of
me, since you, Madam, could express a suspicion of such ill conduct!”

“It is of very little consequence what opinion he may form of you,”
replied her aunt, “for I have put an end to the affair; but I believe he
will not form a worse opinion of me for my prudent conduct. I let him see, that
I was not to be trifled with, and that I had more delicacy, than to permit any
clandestine correspondence to be carried on in my house.”

Emily had frequently heard Madame Cheron use the word delicacy, but she was now
more than usually perplexed to understand how she meant to apply it in this
instance, in which her whole conduct appeared to merit the very reverse of the
term.

“It was very inconsiderate of my brother,” resumed Madame Cheron,
“to leave the trouble of overlooking your conduct to me; I wish you were
well settled in life. But if I find, that I am to be further troubled with such
visitors as this M. Valancourt, I shall place you in a convent at
once;—so remember the alternative. This young man has the impertinence to
own to me,—he owns it! that his fortune is very small, and that he is
chiefly dependent on an elder brother and on the profession he has chosen! He
should have concealed these circumstances, at least, if he expected to succeed
with me. Had he the presumption to suppose I would marry my niece to a person
such as he describes himself!”

Emily dried her tears when she heard of the candid confession of Valancourt;
and, though the circumstances it discovered were afflicting to her hopes, his
artless conduct gave her a degree of pleasure, that overcame every other
emotion. But she was compelled, even thus early in life, to observe, that good
sense and noble integrity are not always sufficient to cope with folly and
narrow cunning; and her heart was pure enough to allow her, even at this trying
moment, to look with more pride on the defeat of the former, than with
mortification on the conquests of the latter.

Madame Cheron pursued her triumph. “He has also thought proper to tell
me, that he will receive his dismission from no person but yourself; this
favour, however, I have absolutely refused him. He shall learn, that it is
quite sufficient, that I disapprove him. And I take this opportunity of
repeating,—that if you concert any means of interview unknown to me, you
shall leave my house immediately.”

“How little do you know me, madam, that you should think such an
injunction necessary!” said Emily, trying to suppress her emotion,
“how little of the dear parents, who educated me!”

Madame Cheron now went to dress for an engagement, which she had made for the
evening; and Emily, who would gladly have been excused from attending her aunt,
did not ask to remain at home lest her request should be attributed to an
improper motive. When she retired to her own room, the little fortitude, which
had supported her in the presence of her relation, forsook her; she remembered
only that Valancourt, whose character appeared more amiable from every
circumstance, that unfolded it, was banished from her presence, perhaps, for
ever, and she passed the time in weeping, which, according to her aunt’s
direction, she ought to have employed in dressing. This important duty was,
however, quickly dispatched; though, when she joined Madame Cheron at table,
her eyes betrayed, that she had been in tears, and drew upon her a severe
reproof.

Her efforts to appear cheerful did not entirely fail when she joined the
company at the house of Madame Clairval, an elderly widow lady, who had lately
come to reside at Thoulouse, on an estate of her late husband. She had lived
many years at Paris in a splendid style; had naturally a gay temper, and, since
her residence at Thoulouse, had given some of the most magnificent
entertainments, that had been seen in that neighbourhood.

These excited not only the envy, but the trifling ambition of Madame Cheron,
who, since she could not rival the splendour of her festivities, was desirous
of being ranked in the number of her most intimate friends. For this purpose
she paid her the most obsequious attention, and made a point of being
disengaged, whenever she received an invitation from Madame Clairval, of whom
she talked, wherever she went, and derived much self-consequence from
impressing a belief on her general acquaintance, that they were on the most
familiar footing.

The entertainments of this evening consisted of a ball and supper; it was a
fancy ball, and the company danced in groups in the gardens, which were very
extensive. The high and luxuriant trees, under which the groups assembled, were
illuminated with a profusion of lamps, disposed with taste and fancy. The gay
and various dresses of the company, some of whom were seated on the turf,
conversing at their ease, observing the cotillons, taking refreshments,
and sometimes touching sportively a guitar; the gallant manners of the
gentlemen, the exquisitely capricious air of the ladies; the light fantastic
steps of their dances; the musicians, with the lute, the hautboy, and the
tabor, seated at the foot of an elm, and the sylvan scenery of woods around
were circumstances, that unitedly formed a characteristic and striking picture
of French festivity. Emily surveyed the gaiety of the scene with a melancholy
kind of pleasure, and her emotion may be imagined when, as she stood with her
aunt, looking at one of the groups, she perceived Valancourt; saw him dancing
with a young and beautiful lady, saw him conversing with her with a mixture of
attention and familiarity, such as she had seldom observed in his manner. She
turned hastily from the scene, and attempted to draw away Madame Cheron, who
was conversing with Signor Cavigni, and neither perceived Valancourt, nor was
willing to be interrupted. A faintness suddenly came over Emily, and, unable to
support herself, she sat down on a turf bank beneath the trees, where several
other persons were seated. One of these, observing the extreme paleness of her
countenance, enquired if she was ill, and begged she would allow him to fetch
her a glass of water, for which politeness she thanked him, but did not accept
it. Her apprehension lest Valancourt should observe her emotion made her
anxious to overcome it, and she succeeded so far as to recompose her
countenance. Madame Cheron was still conversing with Cavigni; and the Count
Bauvillers, who had addressed Emily, made some observations upon the scene, to
which she answered almost unconsciously, for her mind was still occupied with
the idea of Valancourt, to whom it was with extreme uneasiness that she
remained so near. Some remarks, however, which the Count made upon the dance
obliged her to turn her eyes towards it, and, at that moment,
Valancourt’s met hers. Her colour faded again, she felt, that she was
relapsing into faintness, and instantly averted her looks, but not before she
had observed the altered countenance of Valancourt, on perceiving her. She
would have left the spot immediately, had she not been conscious, that this
conduct would have shown him more obviously the interest he held in her heart;
and, having tried to attend to the Count’s conversation, and to join in
it, she, at length, recovered her spirits. But, when he made some observation
on Valancourt’s partner, the fear of showing that she was interested in
the remark, would have betrayed it to him, had not the Count, while he spoke,
looked towards the person of whom he was speaking. “The lady,” said
he, “dancing with that young Chevalier, who appears to be accomplished in
everything, but in dancing, is ranked among the beauties of Thoulouse. She is
handsome, and her fortune will be very large. I hope she will make a better
choice in a partner for life than she has done in a partner for the dance, for
I observe he has just put the set into great confusion; he does nothing but
commit blunders. I am surprised, that, with his air and figure, he has not
taken more care to accomplish himself in dancing.”

Emily, whose heart trembled at every word, that was now uttered, endeavoured to
turn the conversation from Valancourt, by enquiring the name of the lady, with
whom he danced; but, before the Count could reply, the dance concluded, and
Emily, perceiving that Valancourt was coming towards her, rose and joined
Madame Cheron.

“Here is the Chevalier Valancourt, madam,” said she in a whisper,
“pray let us go.” Her aunt immediately moved on, but not before
Valancourt had reached them, who bowed lowly to Madame Cheron, and with an
earnest and dejected look to Emily, with whom, notwithstanding all her effort,
an air of more than common reserve prevailed. The presence of Madame Cheron
prevented Valancourt from remaining, and he passed on with a countenance, whose
melancholy reproached her for having increased it. Emily was called from the
musing fit, into which she had fallen, by the Count Bauvillers, who was known
to her aunt.

“I have your pardon to beg, ma’amselle,” said he, “for
a rudeness, which you will readily believe was quite unintentional. I did not
know, that the Chevalier was your acquaintance, when I so freely criticised his
dancing.” Emily blushed and smiled, and Madame Cheron spared her the
difficulty of replying. “If you mean the person, who has just passed
us,” said she, “I can assure you he is no acquaintance of either
mine, or ma’amselle St. Aubert’s: I know nothing of him.”

“O! that is the Chevalier Valancourt,” said Cavigni carelessly, and
looking back. “You know him then?” said Madame Cheron. “I am
not acquainted with him,” replied Cavigni. “You don’t know,
then, the reason I have to call him impertinent;—he has had the
presumption to admire my niece!”

“If every man deserves the title of impertinent, who admires
ma’amselle St. Aubert,” replied Cavigni, “I fear there are a
great many impertinents, and I am willing to acknowledge myself one of the
number.”

“O Signor!” said Madame Cheron, with an affected smile, “I
perceive you have learnt the art of complimenting, since you came into France.
But it is cruel to compliment children, since they mistake flattery for
truth.”

Cavigni turned away his face for a moment, and then said with a studied air,
“Whom then are we to compliment, madam? for it would be absurd to
compliment a woman of refined understanding; she is above all
praise.” As he finished the sentence he gave Emily a sly look, and the
smile, that had lurked in his eye, stole forth. She perfectly understood it,
and blushed for Madame Cheron, who replied, “You are perfectly right,
signor, no woman of understanding can endure compliment.”

“I have heard Signor Montoni say,” rejoined Cavigni, “that he
never knew but one woman who deserved it.”

“Well!” exclaimed Madame Cheron, with a short laugh, and a smile of
unutterable complacency, “and who could she be?”

“O!” replied Cavigni, “it is impossible to mistake her, for
certainly there is not more than one woman in the world, who has both the merit
to deserve compliment and the wit to refuse it. Most women reverse the case
entirely.” He looked again at Emily, who blushed deeper than before for
her aunt, and turned from him with displeasure.

“Well, signor!” said Madame Cheron, “I protest you are a
Frenchman; I never heard a foreigner say anything half so gallant as
that!”

“True, madam,” said the Count, who had been some time silent, and
with a low bow, “but the gallantry of the compliment had been utterly
lost, but for the ingenuity that discovered the application.”

Madame Cheron did not perceive the meaning of this too satirical sentence, and
she, therefore, escaped the pain, which Emily felt on her account. “O!
here comes Signor Montoni himself,” said her aunt, “I protest I
will tell him all the fine things you have been saying to me.” The
Signor, however, passed at this moment into another walk. “Pray, who is
it, that has so much engaged your friend this evening?” asked Madame
Cheron, with an air of chagrin, “I have not seen him once.”

“He had a very particular engagement with the Marquis La Rivière,”
replied Cavigni, “which has detained him, I perceive, till this moment,
or he would have done himself the honour of paying his respects to you, madam,
sooner, as he commissioned me to say. But, I know not how it is—your
conversation is so fascinating—that it can charm even memory, I think, or
I should certainly have delivered my friend’s apology before.”

“The apology, sir, would have been more satisfactory from himself,”
said Madame Cheron, whose vanity was more mortified by Montoni’s neglect,
than flattered by Cavigni’s compliment. Her manner, at this moment, and
Cavigni’s late conversation, now awakened a suspicion in Emily’s
mind, which, notwithstanding that some recollections served to confirm it,
appeared preposterous. She thought she perceived, that Montoni was paying
serious addresses to her aunt, and that she not only accepted them, but was
jealously watchful of any appearance of neglect on his part.—That Madame
Cheron at her years should elect a second husband was ridiculous, though her
vanity made it not impossible; but that Montoni, with his discernment, his
figure, and pretensions, should make a choice of Madame Cheron—appeared
most wonderful. Her thoughts, however, did not dwell long on the subject;
nearer interests pressed upon them; Valancourt, rejected of her aunt, and
Valancourt dancing with a gay and beautiful partner, alternately tormented her
mind. As she passed along the gardens she looked timidly forward, half fearing
and half hoping that he might appear in the crowd; and the disappointment she
felt on not seeing him, told her, that she had hoped more than she had feared.

Montoni soon after joined the party. He muttered over some short speech about
regret for having been so long detained elsewhere, when he knew he should have
the pleasure of seeing Madame Cheron here; and she, receiving the apology with
the air of a pettish girl, addressed herself entirely to Cavigni, who looked
archly at Montoni, as if he would have said, “I will not triumph over you
too much; I will have the goodness to bear my honours meekly; but look sharp,
Signor, or I shall certainly run away with your prize.”

The supper was served in different pavilions in the gardens, as well as in one
large saloon of the château, and with more of taste, than either of splendour,
or even of plenty. Madame Cheron and her party supped with Madame Clairval in
the saloon, and Emily, with difficulty, disguised her emotion, when she saw
Valancourt placed at the same table with herself. There, Madame Cheron having
surveyed him with high displeasure, said to some person who sat next to her,
“Pray, who is that young man?” “It is the Chevalier
Valancourt,” was the answer. “Yes, I am not ignorant of his name,
but who is this Chevalier Valancourt that thus intrudes himself at this
table?” The attention of the person, to whom she spoke, was called off
before she received a second reply. The table, at which they sat, was very
long, and, Valancourt being seated, with his partner, near the bottom, and
Emily near the top, the distance between them may account for his not
immediately perceiving her. She avoided looking to that end of the table, but
whenever her eyes happened to glance towards it, she observed him conversing
with his beautiful companion, and the observation did not contribute to restore
her peace, any more than the accounts she heard of the fortune and
accomplishments of this same lady.

Madame Cheron, to whom these remarks were sometimes addressed, because they
supported topics for trivial conversation, seemed indefatigable in her attempts
to depreciate Valancourt, towards whom she felt all the petty resentment of a
narrow pride. “I admire the lady,” said she, “but I must
condemn her choice of a partner.” “Oh, the Chevalier Valancourt is
one of the most accomplished young men we have,” replied the lady, to
whom this remark was addressed: “it is whispered, that Mademoiselle
d’Emery, and her large fortune, are to be his.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Madame Cheron, reddening with vexation,
“it is impossible that she can be so destitute of taste; he has so little
the air of a person of condition, that, if I did not see him at the table of
Madame Clairval, I should never have suspected him to be one. I have besides
particular reasons for believing the report to be erroneous.”

“I cannot doubt the truth of it,” replied the lady gravely,
disgusted by the abrupt contradiction she had received, concerning her opinion
of Valancourt’s merit. “You will, perhaps, doubt it,” said
Madame Cheron, “when I assure you, that it was only this morning that I
rejected his suit.”

This was said without any intention of imposing the meaning it conveyed, but
simply from a habit of considering herself to be the most important person in
every affair that concerned her niece, and because literally she had
rejected Valancourt. “Your reasons are indeed such as cannot be
doubted,” replied the lady, with an ironical smile. “Any more than
the discernment of the Chevalier Valancourt,” added Cavigni, who stood by
the chair of Madame Cheron, and had heard her arrogate to herself, as he
thought, a distinction which had been paid to her niece. “His discernment
may be justly questioned, Signor,” said Madame Cheron, who was not
flattered by what she understood to be an encomium on Emily.

“Alas!” exclaimed Cavigni, surveying Madame Cheron with affected
ecstasy, “how vain is that assertion, while that face—that
shape—that air—combine to refute it! Unhappy Valancourt! his
discernment has been his destruction.”

Emily looked surprised and embarrassed; the lady, who had lately spoken,
astonished, and Madame Cheron, who, though she did not perfectly understand
this speech, was very ready to believe herself complimented by it, said
smilingly, “O Signor! you are very gallant; but those, who hear you
vindicate the Chevalier’s discernment, will suppose that I am the object
of it.”

“They cannot doubt it,” replied Cavigni, bowing low.

“And would not that be very mortifying, Signor?”

“Unquestionably it would,” said Cavigni.

“I cannot endure the thought,” said Madame Cheron.

“It is not to be endured,” replied Cavigni.

“What can be done to prevent so humiliating a mistake?” rejoined
Madame Cheron.

“Alas! I cannot assist you,” replied Cavigni, with a deliberating
air. “Your only chance of refuting the calumny, and of making people
understand what you wish them to believe, is to persist in your first
assertion; for, when they are told of the Chevalier’s want of
discernment, it is possible they may suppose he never presumed to distress you
with his admiration.—But then again—that diffidence, which renders
you so insensible to your own perfections—they will consider this, and
Valancourt’s taste will not be doubted, though you arraign it. In short,
they will, in spite of your endeavours, continue to believe, what might very
naturally have occurred to them without any hint of mine—that the
Chevalier has taste enough to admire a beautiful woman.”

“All this is very distressing!” said Madame Cheron, with a profound
sigh.

“May I be allowed to ask what is so distressing?” said Madame
Clairval, who was struck with the rueful countenance and doleful accent, with
which this was delivered.

“It is a delicate subject,” replied Madame Cheron, “a very
mortifying one to me.” “I am concerned to hear it,” said
Madame Clairval, “I hope nothing has occurred, this evening, particularly
to distress you?” “Alas, yes! within this half hour; and I know not
where the report may end;—my pride was never so shocked before, but I
assure you the report is totally void of foundation.” “Good
God!” exclaimed Madame Clairval, “what can be done? Can you point
out any way, by which I can assist, or console you?”

“The only way, by which you can do either,” replied Madame Cheron,
“is to contradict the report wherever you go.”

“Well! but pray inform me what I am to contradict.”

“It is so very humiliating, that I know not how to mention it,”
continued Madame Cheron, “but you shall judge. Do you observe that young
man seated near the bottom of the table, who is conversing with Mademoiselle
d’Emery?” “Yes, I perceive whom you mean.” “You
observe how little he has the air of a person of condition; I was saying just
now, that I should not have thought him a gentleman, if I had not seen him at
this table.” “Well! but the report,” said Madame Clairval,
“let me understand the subject of your distress.” “Ah! the
subject of my distress,” replied Madame Cheron; “this person, whom
nobody knows—(I beg pardon, madam, I did not consider what I
said)—this impertinent young man, having had the presumption to address
my niece, has, I fear, given rise to a report, that he had declared himself my
admirer. Now only consider how very mortifying such a report must be! You, I
know, will feel for my situation. A woman of my condition!—think how
degrading even the rumour of such an alliance must be.”

“Degrading indeed, my poor friend!” said Madame Clairval.
“You may rely upon it I will contradict the report wherever I go;”
as she said which, she turned her attention upon another part of the company;
and Cavigni, who had hitherto appeared a grave spectator of the scene, now
fearing he should be unable to smother the laugh, that convulsed him, walked
abruptly away.

“I perceive you do not know,” said the lady who sat near Madame
Cheron, “that the gentleman you have been speaking of is Madame
Clairval’s nephew!” “Impossible!” exclaimed Madame
Cheron, who now began to perceive, that she had been totally mistaken in her
judgment of Valancourt, and to praise him aloud with as much servility, as she
had before censured him with frivolous malignity.

Emily, who, during the greater part of this conversation, had been so absorbed
in thought as to be spared the pain of hearing it, was now extremely surprised
by her aunt’s praise of Valancourt, with whose relationship to Madame
Clairval she was unacquainted; but she was not sorry when Madame Cheron, who,
though she now tried to appear unconcerned, was really much embarrassed,
prepared to withdraw immediately after supper. Montoni then came to hand Madame
Cheron to her carriage, and Cavigni, with an arch solemnity of countenance,
followed with Emily, who, as she wished them good night, and drew up the glass,
saw Valancourt among the crowd at the gates. Before the carriage drove off, he
disappeared. Madame Cheron forbore to mention him to Emily, and, as soon as
they reached the château, they separated for the night.

On the following morning, as Emily sat at breakfast with her aunt, a letter was
brought to her, of which she knew the handwriting upon the cover; and, as she
received it with a trembling hand, Madame Cheron hastily enquired from whom it
came. Emily, with her leave, broke the seal, and, observing the signature of
Valancourt, gave it unread to her aunt, who received it with impatience; and,
as she looked it over, Emily endeavoured to read on her countenance its
contents. Having returned the letter to her niece, whose eyes asked if she
might examine it, “Yes, read it, child,” said Madame Cheron, in a
manner less severe than she had expected, and Emily had, perhaps, never before
so willingly obeyed her aunt. In this letter Valancourt said little of the
interview of the preceding day, but concluded with declaring, that he would
accept his dismission from Emily only, and with entreating, that she would
allow him to wait upon her, on the approaching evening. When she read this, she
was astonished at the moderation of Madame Cheron, and looked at her with timid
expectation, as she said sorrowfully—“What am I to say,
madam?”

“Why—we must see the young man, I believe,” replied her aunt,
“and hear what he has further to say for himself. You may tell him he may
come.” Emily dared scarcely credit what she heard. “Yet,
stay,” added Madame Cheron, “I will tell him so myself.” She
called for pen and ink; Emily still not daring to trust the emotions she felt,
and almost sinking beneath them. Her surprise would have been less had she
overheard, on the preceding evening, what Madame Cheron had not
forgotten—that Valancourt was the nephew of Madame Clairval.

What were the particulars of her aunt’s note Emily did not learn, but the
result was a visit from Valancourt in the evening, whom Madame Cheron received
alone, and they had a long conversation before Emily was called down. When she
entered the room, her aunt was conversing with complacency, and she saw the
eyes of Valancourt, as he impatiently rose, animated with hope.

“We have been talking over this affair,” said Madame Cheron,
“the chevalier has been telling me, that the late Monsieur Clairval was
the brother of the Countess de Duvarney, his mother. I only wish he had
mentioned his relationship to Madame Clairval before; I certainly should have
considered that circumstance as a sufficient introduction to my house.”
Valancourt bowed, and was going to address Emily, but her aunt prevented him.
“I have, therefore, consented that you shall receive his visits; and,
though I will not bind myself by any promise, or say, that I shall consider him
as my nephew, yet I shall permit the intercourse, and shall look forward to any
further connection as an event, which may possibly take place in a course of
years, provided the chevalier rises in his profession, or any circumstance
occurs, which may make it prudent for him to take a wife. But Mons. Valancourt
will observe, and you too, Emily, that, till that happens, I positively forbid
any thoughts of marrying.”

Emily’s countenance, during this coarse speech, varied every instant,
and, towards its conclusion, her distress had so much increased, that she was
on the point of leaving the room. Valancourt, meanwhile, scarcely less
embarrassed, did not dare to look at her, for whom he was thus distressed; but,
when Madame Cheron was silent, he said, “Flattering, madam, as your
approbation is to me—highly as I am honoured by it—I have yet so
much to fear, that I scarcely dare to hope.” “Pray, sir, explain
yourself,” said Madame Cheron; an unexpected requisition, which
embarrassed Valancourt again, and almost overcame him with confusion, at
circumstances, on which, had he been only a spectator of the scene, he would
have smiled.

“Till I receive Mademoiselle St. Aubert’s permission to accept your
indulgence,” said he, falteringly—“till she allows me to
hope—”

“O! is that all?” interrupted Madame Cheron. “Well, I will
take upon me to answer for her. But at the same time, sir, give me leave to
observe to you, that I am her guardian, and that I expect, in every instance,
that my will is hers.”

As she said this, she rose and quitted the room, leaving Emily and Valancourt
in a state of mutual embarrassment; and, when Valancourt’s hopes enabled
him to overcome his fears, and to address her with the zeal and sincerity so
natural to him, it was a considerable time before she was sufficiently
recovered to hear with distinctness his solicitations and inquiries.

The conduct of Madame Cheron in this affair had been entirely governed by
selfish vanity. Valancourt, in his first interview, had with great candour laid
open to her the true state of his present circumstances, and his future
expectancies, and she, with more prudence than humanity, had absolutely and
abruptly rejected his suit. She wished her niece to marry ambitiously, not
because she desired to see her in possession of the happiness, which rank and
wealth are usually believed to bestow, but because she desired to partake the
importance, which such an alliance would give. When, therefore, she discovered
that Valancourt was the nephew of a person of so much consequence as Madame
Clairval, she became anxious for the connection, since the prospect it afforded
of future fortune and distinction for Emily, promised the exaltation she
coveted for herself. Her calculations concerning fortune in this alliance were
guided rather by her wishes, than by any hint of Valancourt, or strong
appearance of probability; and, when she rested her expectation on the wealth
of Madame Clairval, she seemed totally to have forgotten, that the latter had a
daughter. Valancourt, however, had not forgotten this circumstance, and the
consideration of it had made him so modest in his expectations from Madame
Clairval, that he had not even named the relationship in his first conversation
with Madame Cheron. But, whatever might be the future fortune of Emily, the
present distinction, which the connection would afford for herself, was
certain, since the splendour of Madame Clairval’s establishment was such
as to excite the general envy and partial imitation of the neighbourhood. Thus
had she consented to involve her niece in an engagement, to which she saw only
a distant and uncertain conclusion, with as little consideration of her
happiness, as when she had so precipitately forbade it: for though she herself
possessed the means of rendering this union not only certain, but prudent, yet
to do so was no part of her present intention.

From this period Valancourt made frequent visits to Madame Cheron, and Emily
passed in his society the happiest hours she had known since the death of her
father. They were both too much engaged by the present moments to give serious
consideration to the future. They loved and were beloved, and saw not, that the
very attachment, which formed the delight of their present days, might possibly
occasion the sufferings of years. Meanwhile, Madame Cheron’s intercourse
with Madame Clairval became more frequent than before, and her vanity was
already gratified by the opportunity of proclaiming, wherever she went, the
attachment that subsisted between their nephew and niece.

Montoni was now also become a daily guest at the château, and Emily was
compelled to observe, that he really was a suitor, and a favoured suitor, to
her aunt.

Thus passed the winter months, not only in peace, but in happiness, to
Valancourt and Emily; the station of his regiment being so near Thoulouse, as to
allow this frequent intercourse. The pavilion on the terrace was the favourite
scene of their interviews, and there Emily, with Madame Cheron, would work,
while Valancourt read aloud works of genius and taste, listened to her
enthusiasm, expressed his own, and caught new opportunities of observing, that
their minds were formed to constitute the happiness of each other, the same
taste, the same noble and benevolent sentiments animating each.

CHAPTER XIII

As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles,
Placed far amid the melancholy main,
(Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles,
Or that aerial beings sometimes deign
To stand embodied to our senses plain)
Sees on the naked hill, or valley low,
The whilst in ocean Phœbus dips his wain,
A vast assembly moving to and fro,
Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.
                    CASTLE OF INDOLENCE

Madame Cheron’s avarice at length yielded to her vanity. Some very
splendid entertainments, which Madame Clairval had given, and the general
adulation, which was paid her, made the former more anxious than before to
secure an alliance, that would so much exalt her in her own opinion and in that
of the world. She proposed terms for the immediate marriage of her niece, and
offered to give Emily a dower, provided Madame Clairval observed equal terms,
on the part of her nephew. Madame Clairval listened to the proposal, and,
considering that Emily was the apparent heiress of her aunt’s wealth,
accepted it. Meanwhile, Emily knew nothing of the transaction, till Madame
Cheron informed her, that she must make preparation for the nuptials, which
would be celebrated without further delay; then, astonished and wholly unable
to account for this sudden conclusion, which Valancourt had not solicited (for
he was ignorant of what had passed between the elder ladies, and had not dared
to hope such good fortune), she decisively objected to it. Madame Cheron,
however, quite as jealous of contradiction now, as she had been formerly,
contended for a speedy marriage with as much vehemence as she had formerly
opposed whatever had the most remote possibility of leading to it; and
Emily’s scruples disappeared, when she again saw Valancourt, who was now
informed of the happiness, designed for him, and came to claim a promise of it
from herself.

While preparations were making for these nuptials, Montoni became the
acknowledged lover of Madame Cheron; and, though Madame Clairval was much
displeased, when she heard of the approaching connection, and was willing to
prevent that of Valancourt with Emily, her conscience told her, that she had no
right thus to trifle with their peace, and Madame Clairval, though a woman of
fashion, was far less advanced than her friend in the art of deriving
satisfaction from distinction and admiration, rather than from conscience.

Emily observed with concern the ascendancy, which Montoni had acquired over
Madame Cheron, as well as the increasing frequency of his visits; and her own
opinion of this Italian was confirmed by that of Valancourt, who had always
expressed a dislike of him. As she was, one morning, sitting at work in the
pavilion, enjoying the pleasant freshness of spring, whose colours were now
spread upon the landscape, and listening to Valancourt, who was reading, but
who often laid aside the book to converse, she received a summons to attend
Madame Cheron immediately, and had scarcely entered the dressing-room, when she
observed with surprise the dejection of her aunt’s countenance, and the
contrasted gaiety of her dress. “So, niece!”—said Madame, and
she stopped under some degree of embarrassment.—“I sent for
you—I—I wished to see you; I have news to tell you. From this hour
you must consider the Signor Montoni as your uncle—we were married this
morning.”

Astonished—not so much at the marriage, as at the secrecy with which it
had been concluded, and the agitation with which it was announced, Emily, at
length, attributed the privacy to the wish of Montoni, rather than of her aunt.
His wife, however, intended, that the contrary should be believed, and
therefore added, “you see I wished to avoid a bustle; but now the
ceremony is over I shall do so no longer; and I wish to announce to my servants
that they must receive the Signor Montoni for their master.” Emily made a
feeble attempt to congratulate her on these apparently imprudent nuptials.
“I shall now celebrate my marriage with some splendour,” continued
Madame Montoni, “and to save time I shall avail myself of the preparation
that has been made for yours, which will, of course, be delayed a little while.
Such of your wedding clothes as are ready I shall expect you will appear in, to
do honour to this festival. I also wish you to inform Monsieur Valancourt, that
I have changed my name, and he will acquaint Madame Clairval. In a few days I
shall give a grand entertainment, at which I shall request their
presence.”

Emily was so lost in surprise and various thought, that she made Madame Montoni
scarcely any reply, but, at her desire, she returned to inform Valancourt of
what had passed. Surprise was not his predominant emotion on hearing of these
hasty nuptials; and, when he learned, that they were to be the means of
delaying his own, and that the very ornaments of the château, which had been
prepared to grace the nuptial day of his Emily, were to be degraded to the
celebration of Madame Montoni’s, grief and indignation agitated him
alternately. He could conceal neither from the observation of Emily, whose
efforts to abstract him from these serious emotions, and to laugh at the
apprehensive considerations, that assailed him, were ineffectual; and, when, at
length, he took leave, there was an earnest tenderness in his manner, that
extremely affected her; she even shed tears, when he disappeared at the end of
the terrace, yet knew not exactly why she should do so.

Montoni now took possession of the château, and the command of its inhabitants,
with the ease of a man, who had long considered it to be his own. His friend
Cavigni, who had been extremely serviceable, in having paid Madame Cheron the
attention and flattery, which she required, but from which Montoni too often
revolted, had apartments assigned to him, and received from the domestics an
equal degree of obedience with the master of the mansion.

Within a few days, Madame Montoni, as she had promised, gave a magnificent
entertainment to a very numerous company, among whom was Valancourt; but at
which Madame Clairval excused herself from attending. There was a concert, ball
and supper. Valancourt was, of course, Emily’s partner, and though, when
he gave a look to the decorations of the apartments, he could not but remember,
that they were designed for other festivities, than those they now contributed
to celebrate, he endeavoured to check his concern by considering, that a little
while only would elapse before they would be given to their original
destination. During this evening, Madame Montoni danced, laughed and talked
incessantly; while Montoni, silent, reserved and somewhat haughty, seemed weary
of the parade, and of the frivolous company it had drawn together.

This was the first and the last entertainment, given in celebration of their
nuptials. Montoni, though the severity of his temper and the gloominess of his
pride prevented him from enjoying such festivities, was extremely willing to
promote them. It was seldom, that he could meet in any company a man of more
address, and still seldomer one of more understanding, than himself; the
balance of advantage in such parties, or in the connections, which might arise
from them, must, therefore, be on his side; and, knowing, as he did, the
selfish purposes, for which they are generally frequented, he had no objection
to measure his talents of dissimulation with those of any other competitor for
distinction and plunder. But his wife, who, when her own interest was
immediately concerned, had sometimes more discernment than vanity, acquired a
consciousness of her inferiority to other women, in personal attractions,
which, uniting with the jealousy natural to the discovery, counteracted his
readiness for mingling with all the parties Thoulouse could afford. Till she
had, as she supposed, the affections of a husband to lose, she had no motive
for discovering the unwelcome truth, and it had never obtruded itself upon her;
but, now that it influenced her policy, she opposed her husband’s
inclination for company, with the more eagerness, because she believed him to
be really as well received in the female society of the place, as, during his
addresses to her, he had affected to be.

A few weeks only had elapsed, since the marriage, when Madame Montoni informed
Emily, that the Signor intended to return to Italy, as soon as the necessary
preparation could be made for so long a journey. “We shall go to
Venice,” said she, “where the Signor has a fine mansion, and from
thence to his estate in Tuscany. Why do you look so grave, child?—You,
who are so fond of a romantic country and fine views, will doubtless be
delighted with this journey.”

“Am I then to be of the party, madam?” said Emily, with extreme
surprise and emotion. “Most certainly,” replied her aunt,
“how could you imagine we should leave you behind? But I see you are
thinking of the Chevalier; he is not yet, I believe, informed of the journey,
but he very soon will be so. Signor Montoni is gone to acquaint Madame Clairval
of our journey, and to say, that the proposed connection between the families
must from this time be thought of no more.”

The unfeeling manner, in which Madame Montoni thus informed her niece, that she
must be separated, perhaps for ever, from the man, with whom she was on the
point of being united for life, added to the dismay, which she must otherwise
have suffered at such intelligence. When she could speak, she asked the cause
of the sudden change in Madame’s sentiments towards Valancourt, but the
only reply she could obtain was, that the Signor had forbade the connection,
considering it to be greatly inferior to what Emily might reasonably expect.

“I now leave the affair entirely to the Signor,” added Madame
Montoni, “but I must say, that M. Valancourt never was a favourite with
me, and I was overpersuaded, or I should not have given my consent to the
connection. I was weak enough—I am so foolish sometimes!—to suffer
other people’s uneasiness to affect me, and so my better judgment yielded
to your affliction. But the Signor has very properly pointed out the folly of
this, and he shall not have to reprove me a second time. I am determined, that
you shall submit to those, who know how to guide you better than
yourself—I am determined, that you shall be conformable.”

Emily would have been astonished at the assertions of this eloquent speech, had
not her mind been so overwhelmed by the sudden shock it had received, that she
scarcely heard a word of what was latterly addressed to her. Whatever were the
weaknesses of Madame Montoni, she might have avoided to accuse herself with
those of compassion and tenderness to the feelings of others, and especially to
those of Emily. It was the same ambition, that lately prevailed upon her to
solicit an alliance with Madame Clairval’s family, which induced her to
withdraw from it, now that her marriage with Montoni had exalted her
self-consequence, and, with it, her views for her niece.

Emily was, at this time, too much affected to employ either remonstrance, or
entreaty on this topic; and when, at length, she attempted the latter, her
emotion overcame her speech, and she retired to her apartment, to think, if in
the present state of her mind to think was possible, upon this sudden and
overwhelming subject. It was very long, before her spirits were sufficiently
composed to permit the reflection, which, when it came, was dark and even
terrible. She saw, that Montoni sought to aggrandise himself in his disposal of
her, and it occurred, that his friend Cavigni was the person, for whom he was
interested. The prospect of going to Italy was still rendered darker, when she
considered the tumultuous situation of that country, then torn by civil
commotion, where every petty state was at war with its neighbour, and even
every castle liable to the attack of an invader. She considered the person, to
whose immediate guidance she would be committed, and the vast distance, that
was to separate her from Valancourt, and, at the recollection of him, every
other image vanished from her mind, and every thought was again obscured by
grief.

In this perturbed state she passed some hours, and, when she was summoned to
dinner, she entreated permission to remain in her own apartment; but Madame
Montoni was alone, and the request was refused. Emily and her aunt said little
during the repast; the one occupied by her griefs, the other engrossed by the
disappointment, which the unexpected absence of Montoni occasioned; for not
only was her vanity piqued by the neglect, but her jealousy alarmed by what she
considered as a mysterious engagement. When the cloth was drawn and they were
alone, Emily renewed the mention of Valancourt; but her aunt, neither softened
to pity, nor awakened to remorse, became enraged, that her will should be
opposed, and the authority of Montoni questioned, though this was done by Emily
with her usual gentleness, who, after a long, and torturing conversation,
retired in tears.

As she crossed the hall, a person entered it by the great door, whom, as her
eyes hastily glanced that way, she imagined to be Montoni, and she was passing
on with quicker steps, when she heard the well-known voice of Valancourt.

“Emily, O! my Emily!” cried he in a tone faltering with impatience,
while she turned, and, as he advanced, was alarmed at the expression of his
countenance and the eager desperation of his air. “In tears, Emily! I
would speak with you,” said he, “I have much to say; conduct me to
where we may converse. But you tremble—you are ill! Let me lead you to a
seat.”

He observed the open door of an apartment, and hastily took her hand to lead
her thither; but she attempted to withdraw it, and said, with a languid smile,
“I am better already; if you wish to see my aunt she is in the
dining-parlour.” “I must speak with you, my Emily,”
replied Valancourt, “Good God! is it already come to this? Are you indeed
so willing to resign me? But this is an improper place—I am overheard.
Let me entreat your attention, if only for a few
minutes.”—“When you have seen my aunt,” said Emily.
“I was wretched enough when I came hither,” exclaimed Valancourt,
“do not increase my misery by this coldness—this cruel
refusal.”

The despondency, with which he spoke this, affected her almost to tears, but
she persisted in refusing to hear him, till he had conversed with Madame
Montoni. “Where is her husband, where, then, is Montoni?” said
Valancourt, in an altered tone: “it is he, to whom I must speak.”

Emily, terrified for the consequence of the indignation, that flashed in his
eyes, tremblingly assured him, that Montoni was not at home, and entreated he
would endeavour to moderate his resentment. At the tremulous accents of her
voice, his eyes softened instantly from wildness into tenderness. “You
are ill, Emily,” said he, “they will destroy us both! Forgive me,
that I dared to doubt your affection.”

Emily no longer opposed him, as he led her into an adjoining parlour; the
manner, in which he had named Montoni, had so much alarmed her for his own
safety, that she was now only anxious to prevent the consequences of his just
resentment. He listened to her entreaties, with attention, but replied to them
only with looks of despondency and tenderness, concealing, as much as possible,
the sentiments he felt towards Montoni, that he might soothe the apprehensions,
which distressed her. But she saw the veil he had spread over his resentment,
and, his assumed tranquillity only alarming her more, she urged, at length, the
impolicy of forcing an interview with Montoni, and of taking any measure, which
might render their separation irremediable. Valancourt yielded to these
remonstrances, and her affecting entreaties drew from him a promise, that,
however Montoni might persist in his design of disuniting them, he would not
seek to redress his wrongs by violence. “For my sake,” said Emily,
“let the consideration of what I should suffer deter you from such a mode
of revenge!” “For your sake, Emily,” replied Valancourt, his
eyes filling with tears of tenderness and grief, while he gazed upon her.
“Yes—yes—I shall subdue myself. But, though I have given you
my solemn promise to do this, do not expect, that I can tamely submit to the
authority of Montoni; if I could, I should be unworthy of you. Yet, O Emily!
how long may he condemn me to live without you,—how long may it be before
you return to France!”

Emily endeavoured to sooth him with assurances of her unalterable affection,
and by representing, that, in little more than a year, she should be her own
mistress, as far as related to her aunt, from whose guardianship her age would
then release her; assurances, which gave little consolation to Valancourt, who
considered, that she would then be in Italy and in the power of those, whose
dominion over her would not cease with their rights; but he affected to be
consoled by them. Emily, comforted by the promise she had obtained, and by his
apparent composure, was about to leave him, when her aunt entered the room. She
threw a glance of sharp reproof upon her niece, who immediately withdrew, and
of haughty displeasure upon Valancourt.

“This is not the conduct I should have expected from you, sir;”
said she, “I did not expect to see you in my house, after you had been
informed, that your visits were no longer agreeable, much less, that you would
seek a clandestine interview with my niece, and that she would grant
one.”

Valancourt, perceiving it necessary to vindicate Emily from such a design,
explained, that the purpose of his own visit had been to request an interview
with Montoni, and he then entered upon the subject of it, with the tempered
spirit which the sex, rather than the respectability, of Madame Montoni,
demanded.

His expostulations were answered with severe rebuke; she lamented again, that
her prudence had ever yielded to what she termed compassion, and added, that
she was so sensible of the folly of her former consent, that, to prevent the
possibility of a repetition, she had committed the affair entirely to the
conduct of Signor Montoni.

The feeling eloquence of Valancourt, however, at length, made her sensible in
some measure of her unworthy conduct, and she became susceptible to shame, but
not remorse: she hated Valancourt, who awakened her to this painful sensation,
and, in proportion as she grew dissatisfied with herself, her abhorrence of him
increased. This was also the more inveterate, because his tempered words and
manner were such as, without accusing her, compelled her to accuse herself, and
neither left her a hope, that the odious portrait was the caricature of his
prejudice, or afforded her an excuse for expressing the violent resentment,
with which she contemplated it. At length, her anger rose to such a height,
that Valancourt was compelled to leave the house abruptly, lest he should
forfeit his own esteem by an intemperate reply. He was then convinced, that
from Madame Montoni he had nothing to hope, for what of either pity, or justice
could be expected from a person, who could feel the pain of guilt, without the
humility of repentance?

To Montoni he looked with equal despondency, since it was nearly evident, that
this plan of separation originated with him, and it was not probable, that he
would relinquish his own views to entreaties, or remonstrances, which he must
have foreseen and have been prepared to resist. Yet, remembering his promise to
Emily, and more solicitous, concerning his love, than jealous of his
consequence, Valancourt was careful to do nothing that might unnecessarily
irritate Montoni, he wrote to him, therefore, not to demand an interview, but
to solicit one, and, having done this, he endeavoured to wait with calmness his
reply.

Madame Clairval was passive in the affair. When she gave her approbation to
Valancourt’s marriage, it was in the belief, that Emily would be the
heiress of Madame Montoni’s fortune; and, though, upon the nuptials of
the latter, when she perceived the fallacy of this expectation, her conscience
had withheld her from adopting any measure to prevent the union, her
benevolence was not sufficiently active to impel her towards any step, that
might now promote it. She was, on the contrary, secretly pleased, that
Valancourt was released from an engagement, which she considered to be as
inferior, in point of fortune, to his merit, as his alliance was thought by
Montoni to be humiliating to the beauty of Emily; and, though her pride was
wounded by this rejection of a member of her family, she disdained to show
resentment otherwise, than by silence.

Montoni, in his reply to Valancourt, said, that as an interview could neither
remove the objections of the one, nor overcome the wishes of the other, it would
serve only to produce useless altercation between them. He, therefore, thought
proper to refuse it.

In consideration of the policy, suggested by Emily, and of his promise to her,
Valancourt restrained the impulse, that urged him to the house of Montoni, to
demand what had been denied to his entreaties. He only repeated his
solicitations to see him; seconding them with all the arguments his situation
could suggest. Thus several days passed, in remonstrance, on one side, and
inflexible denial, on the other; for, whether it was fear, or shame, or the
hatred, which results from both, that made Montoni shun the man he had injured,
he was peremptory in his refusal, and was neither softened to pity by the
agony, which Valancourt’s letters portrayed, nor awakened to a repentance
of his own injustice by the strong remonstrances he employed. At length,
Valancourt’s letters were returned unopened, and then, in the first
moments of passionate despair, he forgot every promise to Emily, except the
solemn one, which bound him to avoid violence, and hastened to Montoni’s
château, determined to see him by whatever other means might be necessary.
Montoni was denied, and Valancourt, when he afterwards enquired for Madame, and
Ma’amselle St. Aubert, was absolutely refused admittance by the servants.
Not choosing to submit himself to a contest with these, he, at length,
departed, and, returning home in a state of mind approaching to frenzy, wrote
to Emily of what had passed, expressed without restraint all the agony of his
heart, and entreated, that, since he must not otherwise hope to see her
immediately, she would allow him an interview unknown to Montoni. Soon after he
had dispatched this, his passions becoming more temperate, he was sensible of
the error he had committed in having given Emily a new subject of distress in
the strong mention of his own suffering, and would have given half the world,
had it been his, to recover the letter. Emily, however, was spared the pain she
must have received from it by the suspicious policy of Madame Montoni, who had
ordered, that all letters, addressed to her niece, should be delivered to
herself, and who, after having perused this and indulged the expressions of
resentment, which Valancourt’s mention of Montoni provoked, had consigned
it to the flames.

Montoni, meanwhile, every day more impatient to leave France, gave repeated
orders for dispatch to the servants employed in preparations for the journey,
and to the persons, with whom he was transacting some particular business. He
preserved a steady silence to the letters in which Valancourt, despairing of
greater good, and having subdued the passion, that had transgressed against his
policy, solicited only the indulgence of being allowed to bid Emily farewell.
But when Valancourt learned that she was really to set out in a very few days,
and that it was designed he should see her no more, forgetting every
consideration of prudence, he dared, in a second letter to Emily, to propose a
clandestine marriage. This also was transmitted to Madame Montoni, and the last
day of Emily’s stay at Thoulouse arrived, without affording Valancourt
even a line to sooth his sufferings, or a hope, that he should be allowed a
parting interview.

During this period of torturing suspense to Valancourt, Emily was sunk into
that kind of stupor, with which sudden and irremediable misfortune sometimes
overwhelms the mind. Loving him with the tenderest affection, and having long
been accustomed to consider him as the friend and companion of all her future
days, she had no ideas of happiness, that were not connected with him. What,
then, must have been her suffering, when thus suddenly they were to be
separated, perhaps, for ever, certainly to be thrown into distant parts of the
world, where they could scarcely hear of each other’s existence; and all
this in obedience to the will of a stranger, for such as Montoni, and of a
person, who had but lately been anxious to hasten their nuptials! It was in
vain, that she endeavoured to subdue her grief, and resign herself to an event,
which she could not avoid. The silence of Valancourt afflicted more than it
surprised her, since she attributed it to its just occasion; but, when the day,
preceding that, on which she was to quit Thoulouse, arrived, and she had heard
no mention of his being permitted to take leave of her, grief overcame every
consideration, that had made her reluctant to speak of him, and she enquired of
Madame Montoni, whether this consolation had been refused. Her aunt informed
her that it had, adding, that, after the provocation she had herself received
from Valancourt, in their last interview, and the persecution, which the Signor
had suffered from his letters, no entreaties should avail to procure it.

“If the chevalier expected this favour from us,” said she,
“he should have conducted himself in a very different manner; he should
have waited patiently, till he knew whether we were disposed to grant it, and
not have come and reproved me, because I did not think proper to bestow my
niece upon him, and then have persisted in troubling the Signor, because he did
not think proper to enter into any dispute about so childish an affair. His
behaviour throughout has been extremely presumptuous and impertinent, and I
desire, that I may never hear his name repeated, and that you will get the
better of those foolish sorrows and whims, and look like other people, and not
appear with that dismal countenance, as if you were ready to cry. For, though
you say nothing, you cannot conceal your grief from my penetration. I can see
you are ready to cry at this moment, though I am reproving you for it; aye,
even now, in spite of my commands.”

Emily, having turned away to hide her tears, quitted the room to indulge them,
and the day was passed in an intensity of anguish, such as she had, perhaps,
never known before. When she withdrew to her chamber for the night, she
remained in the chair where she had placed herself, on entering the room,
absorbed in her grief, till long after every member of the family, except
herself, was retired to rest. She could not divest herself of a belief, that
she had parted with Valancourt to meet no more; a belief, which did not arise
merely from foreseen circumstances, for, though the length of the journey she
was about to commence, the uncertainty as to the period of her return, together
with the prohibitions she had received, seemed to justify it, she yielded also
to an impression, which she mistook for a presentiment, that she was going
from Valancourt for ever. How dreadful to her imagination, too, was the
distance that would separate them—the Alps, those tremendous barriers!
would rise, and whole countries extend between the regions where each must
exist! To live in adjoining provinces, to live even in the same country, though
without seeing him, was comparative happiness to the conviction of this
dreadful length of distance.

Her mind was, at length, so much agitated by the consideration of her state,
and the belief, that she had seen Valancourt for the last time, that she
suddenly became very faint, and, looking round the chamber for something, that
might revive her, she observed the casements, and had just strength to throw
one open, near which she seated herself. The air recalled her spirits, and the
still moonlight, that fell upon the elms of a long avenue, fronting the
window, somewhat soothed them, and determined her to try whether exercise and
the open air would not relieve the intense pain that bound her temples. In the
château all was still; and, passing down the great staircase into the hall,
from whence a passage led immediately to the garden, she softly and unheard, as
she thought, unlocked the door, and entered the avenue. Emily passed on with
steps now hurried, and now faltering, as, deceived by the shadows among the
trees, she fancied she saw some person move in the distant perspective, and
feared, that it was a spy of Madame Montoni. Her desire, however, to revisit
the pavilion, where she had passed so many happy hours with Valancourt, and had
admired with him the extensive prospect over Languedoc and her native Gascony,
overcame her apprehension of being observed, and she moved on towards the
terrace, which, running along the upper garden, commanded the whole of the
lower one, and communicated with it by a flight of marble steps, that
terminated the avenue.

Having reached these steps, she paused a moment to look round, for her distance
from the château now increased the fear, which the stillness and obscurity of
the hour had awakened. But, perceiving nothing that could justify it, she
ascended to the terrace, where the moonlight showed the long broad walk, with
the pavilion at its extremity, while the rays silvered the foliage of the high
trees and shrubs, that bordered it on the right, and the tufted summits of
those, that rose to a level with the balustrade on the left, from the garden
below. Her distance from the château again alarming her, she paused to listen;
the night was so calm, that no sound could have escaped her, but she heard only
the plaintive sweetness of the nightingale, with the light shiver of the
leaves, and she pursued her way towards the pavilion, having reached which, its
obscurity did not prevent the emotion, that a fuller view of its well-known
scene would have excited. The lattices were thrown back, and showed beyond
their embowered arch the moonlight landscape, shadowy and soft; its groves,
and plains extending gradually and indistinctly to the eye, its distant
mountains catching a stronger gleam, and the nearer river reflecting the moon,
and trembling to her rays.

Emily, as she approached the lattice, was sensible of the features of this
scene only as they served to bring Valancourt more immediately to her fancy.
“Ah!” said she, with a heavy sigh, as she threw herself into a
chair by the window, “how often have we sat together in this
spot—often have looked upon that landscape! Never, never more shall we
view it together—never—never more, perhaps, shall we look upon each
other!”

Her tears were suddenly stopped by terror—a voice spoke near her in the
pavilion; she shrieked—it spoke again, and she distinguished the
well-known tones of Valancourt. It was indeed Valancourt who supported her in
his arms! For some moments their emotion would not suffer either to speak.
“Emily,” said Valancourt at length, as he pressed her hand in his.
“Emily!” and he was again silent, but the accent, in which he had
pronounced her name, expressed all his tenderness and sorrow.

“O my Emily!” he resumed, after a long pause, “I do then see
you once again, and hear again the sound of that voice! I have haunted this
place—these gardens, for many—many nights, with a faint, very faint
hope of seeing you. This was the only chance that remained to me, and thank
Heaven! it has at length succeeded—I am not condemned to absolute
despair!”

Emily said something, she scarcely knew what, expressive of her unalterable
affection, and endeavoured to calm the agitation of his mind; but Valancourt
could for some time only utter incoherent expressions of his emotions; and,
when he was somewhat more composed, he said, “I came hither, soon after
sunset, and have been watching in the gardens, and in this pavilion ever
since; for, though I had now given up all hope of seeing you, I could not
resolve to tear myself from a place so near to you, and should probably have
lingered about the château till morning dawned. O how heavily the moments have
passed, yet with what various emotion have they been marked, as I sometimes
thought I heard footsteps, and fancied you were approaching, and then
again—perceived only a dead and dreary silence! But, when you opened the
door of the pavilion, and the darkness prevented my distinguishing with
certainty, whether it was my love—my heart beat so strongly with hopes
and fears, that I could not speak. The instant I heard the plaintive accents of
your voice, my doubts vanished, but not my fears, till you spoke of me; then,
losing the apprehension of alarming you in the excess of my emotion, I could no
longer be silent. O Emily! these are moments, in which joy and grief struggle
so powerfully for pre-eminence, that the heart can scarcely support the
contest!”

Emily’s heart acknowledged the truth of this assertion, but the joy she
felt on thus meeting Valancourt, at the very moment when she was lamenting,
that they must probably meet no more, soon melted into grief, as reflection
stole over her thoughts, and imagination prompted visions of the future. She
struggled to recover the calm dignity of mind, which was necessary to support
her through this last interview, and which Valancourt found it utterly
impossible to attain, for the transports of his joy changed abruptly into those
of suffering, and he expressed in the most impassioned language his horror of
this separation, and his despair of their ever meeting again. Emily wept
silently as she listened to him, and then, trying to command her own distress,
and to sooth his, she suggested every circumstance that could lead to hope. But
the energy of his fears led him instantly to detect the friendly fallacies,
which she endeavoured to impose on herself and him, and also to conjure up
illusions too powerful for his reason.

“You are going from me,” said he, “to a distant country, O
how distant!—to new society, new friends, new admirers, with people too,
who will try to make you forget me, and to promote new connections! How can I
know this, and not know, that you will never return for me—never can be
mine.” His voice was stifled by sighs.

“You believe, then,” said Emily, “that the pangs I suffer
proceed from a trivial and temporary interest; you believe—”

“Suffer!” interrupted Valancourt, “suffer for me! O
Emily—how sweet—how bitter are those words; what comfort, what
anguish do they give! I ought not to doubt the steadiness of your affection,
yet such is the inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to
suspicion, however unreasonable; always requiring new assurances from the
object of its interest, and thus it is, that I always feel revived, as by a new
conviction, when your words tell me I am dear to you; and, wanting these, I
relapse into doubt, and too often into despondency.” Then seeming to
recollect himself, he exclaimed, “But what a wretch am I, thus to torture
you, and in these moments, too! I, who ought to support and comfort you!”

This reflection overcame Valancourt with tenderness, but, relapsing into
despondency, he again felt only for himself, and lamented again this cruel
separation, in a voice and words so impassioned, that Emily could no longer
struggle to repress her own grief, or to sooth his. Valancourt, between these
emotions of love and pity, lost the power, and almost the wish, of repressing
his agitation; and, in the intervals of convulsive sobs, he, at one moment,
kissed away her tears, then told her cruelly, that possibly she might never
again weep for him, and then tried to speak more calmly, but only exclaimed,
“O Emily—my heart will break!—I cannot—cannot leave
you! Now—I gaze upon that countenance, now I hold you in my arms! a
little while, and all this will appear a dream. I shall look, and cannot see
you; shall try to recollect your features—and the impression will be fled
from my imagination;—to hear the tones of your voice, and even memory
will be silent!—I cannot, cannot leave you! Why should we confide the
happiness of our whole lives to the will of people, who have no right to
interrupt, and, except in giving you to me, have no power to promote it? O
Emily! venture to trust your own heart, venture to be mine for ever!” His
voice trembled, and he was silent; Emily continued to weep, and was silent
also, when Valancourt proceeded to propose an immediate marriage, and that at
an early hour on the following morning, she should quit Madame Montoni’s
house, and be conducted by him to the church of the Augustines, where a friar
should await to unite them.

The silence, with which she listened to a proposal, dictated by love and
despair, and enforced at a moment, when it seemed scarcely possible for her to
oppose it;—when her heart was softened by the sorrows of a separation,
that might be eternal, and her reason obscured by the illusions of love and
terror, encouraged him to hope, that it would not be rejected. “Speak, my
Emily!” said Valancourt eagerly, “let me hear your voice, let me
hear you confirm my fate.” she spoke not; her cheek was cold, and her
senses seemed to fail her, but she did not faint. To Valancourt’s
terrified imagination she appeared to be dying; he called upon her name, rose
to go to the château for assistance, and then, recollecting her situation,
feared to go, or to leave her for a moment.

After a few minutes, she drew a deep sigh, and began to revive. The conflict
she had suffered, between love and the duty she at present owed to her
father’s sister; her repugnance to a clandestine marriage, her fear of
emerging on the world with embarrassments, such as might ultimately involve the
object of her affection in misery and repentance;—all this various
interest was too powerful for a mind, already enervated by sorrow, and her
reason had suffered a transient suspension. But duty, and good sense, however
hard the conflict, at length, triumphed over affection and mournful
presentiment; above all, she dreaded to involve Valancourt in obscurity and
vain regret, which she saw, or thought she saw, must be the too certain
consequence of a marriage in their present circumstances; and she acted,
perhaps, with somewhat more than female fortitude, when she resolved to endure
a present, rather than provoke a distant misfortune.

With a candour, that proved how truly she esteemed and loved him, and which
endeared her to him, if possible, more than ever, she told Valancourt all her
reasons for rejecting his proposals. Those, which influenced her concerning his
future welfare, he instantly refuted, or rather contradicted; but they awakened
tender considerations for her, which the frenzy of passion and despair had
concealed before, and love, which had but lately prompted him to propose a
clandestine and immediate marriage, now induced him to renounce it. The triumph
was almost too much for his heart; for Emily’s sake, he endeavoured to
stifle his grief, but the swelling anguish would not be restrained. “O
Emily!” said he, “I must leave you—I must leave you,
and I know it is for ever!”

Convulsive sobs again interrupted his words, and they wept together in silence,
till Emily, recollecting the danger of being discovered, and the impropriety of
prolonging an interview, which might subject her to censure, summoned all her
fortitude to utter a last farewell.

“Stay!” said Valancourt, “I conjure you stay, for I have much
to tell you. The agitation of my mind has hitherto suffered me to speak only on
the subject that occupied it;—I have forborne to mention a doubt of much
importance, partly, lest it should appear as if I told it with an ungenerous
view of alarming you into a compliance with my late proposal.”

Emily, much agitated, did not leave Valancourt, but she led him from the
pavilion, and, as they walked upon the terrace, he proceeded as follows:

“This Montoni: I have heard some strange hints concerning him. Are you
certain he is of Madame Quesnel’s family, and that his fortune is what it
appears to be?”

“I have no reason to doubt either,” replied Emily, in a voice of
alarm. “Of the first, indeed, I cannot doubt, but I have no certain means
of judging of the latter, and I entreat you will tell me all you have
heard.”

“That I certainly will, but it is very imperfect, and unsatisfactory
information. I gathered it by accident from an Italian, who was speaking to
another person of this Montoni. They were talking of his marriage; the Italian
said, that if he was the person he meant, he was not likely to make Madame
Cheron happy. He proceeded to speak of him in general terms of dislike, and
then gave some particular hints, concerning his character, that excited my
curiosity, and I ventured to ask him a few questions. He was reserved in his
replies, but, after hesitating for some time, he owned, that he had understood
abroad, that Montoni was a man of desperate fortune and character. He said
something of a castle of Montoni’s, situated among the Apennines, and of
some strange circumstances, that might be mentioned, as to his former mode of
life. I pressed him to inform me further, but I believe the strong interest I
felt was visible in my manner, and alarmed him; for no entreaties could prevail
with him to give any explanation of the circumstances he had alluded to, or to
mention anything further concerning Montoni. I observed to him, that, if
Montoni was possessed of a castle in the Apennines, it appeared from such a
circumstance, that he was of some family, and also seemed to contradict the
report, that he was a man of entirely broken fortunes. He shook his head, and
looked as if he could have said a great deal, but made no reply.

“A hope of learning something more satisfactory, or more positive,
detained me in his company a considerable time, and I renewed the subject
repeatedly, but the Italian wrapped himself up in reserve, said—that what
he had mentioned he had caught only from a floating report, and that reports
frequently arose from personal malice, and were very little to be depended
upon. I forbore to press the subject farther, since it was obvious that he was
alarmed for the consequence of what he had already said, and I was compelled to
remain in uncertainty on a point where suspense is almost intolerable. Think,
Emily, what I must suffer to see you depart for a foreign country, committed to
the power of a man of such doubtful character as is this Montoni! But I will
not alarm you unnecessarily;—it is possible, as the Italian said, at
first, that this is not the Montoni he alluded to. Yet, Emily, consider well
before you resolve to commit yourself to him. O! I must not trust myself to
speak—or I shall renounce all the motives, which so lately influenced me
to resign the hope of your becoming mine immediately.”

Valancourt walked upon the terrace with hurried steps, while Emily remained
leaning on the balustrade in deep thought. The information she had just
received excited, perhaps, more alarm than it could justify, and raised once
more the conflict of contrasted interests. She had never liked Montoni. The
fire and keenness of his eye, its proud exultation, its bold fierceness, its
sullen watchfulness, as occasion, and even slight occasion, had called forth
the latent soul, she had often observed with emotion; while from the usual
expression of his countenance she had always shrunk. From such observations she
was the more inclined to believe, that it was this Montoni, of whom the Italian
had uttered his suspicious hints. The thought of being solely in his power, in
a foreign land, was terrifying to her, but it was not by terror alone that she
was urged to an immediate marriage with Valancourt. The tenderest love had
already pleaded his cause, but had been unable to overcome her opinion, as to
her duty, her disinterested considerations for Valancourt, and the delicacy,
which made her revolt from a clandestine union. It was not to be expected, that
a vague terror would be more powerful, than the united influence of love and
grief. But it recalled all their energy, and rendered a second conquest
necessary.

With Valancourt, whose imagination was now awake to the suggestion of every
passion; whose apprehensions for Emily had acquired strength by the mere
mention of them, and became every instant more powerful, as his mind brooded
over them—with Valancourt no second conquest was attainable. He thought
he saw in the clearest light, and love assisted the fear, that this journey to
Italy would involve Emily in misery; he determined, therefore, to persevere in
opposing it, and in conjuring her to bestow upon him the title of her lawful
protector.

“Emily!” said he, with solemn earnestness, “this is no time
for scrupulous distinctions, for weighing the dubious and comparatively
trifling circumstances, that may affect our future comfort. I now see, much
more clearly than before, the train of serious dangers you are going to
encounter with a man of Montoni’s character. Those dark hints of the
Italian spoke much, but not more than the idea I have of Montoni’s
disposition, as exhibited even in his countenance. I think I see at this moment
all that could have been hinted, written there. He is the Italian, whom I fear,
and I conjure you for your own sake, as well as for mine, to prevent the evils
I shudder to foresee. O Emily! let my tenderness, my arms withhold you from
them—give me the right to defend you!”

Emily only sighed, while Valancourt proceeded to remonstrate and to entreat
with all the energy that love and apprehension could inspire. But, as his
imagination magnified to her the possible evils she was going to meet, the
mists of her own fancy began to dissipate, and allowed her to distinguish the
exaggerated images, which imposed on his reason. She considered, that there was
no proof of Montoni being the person, whom the stranger had meant; that, even
if he was so, the Italian had noticed his character and broken fortunes merely
from report; and that, though the countenance of Montoni seemed to give
probability to a part of the rumour, it was not by such circumstances that an
implicit belief of it could be justified. These considerations would probably
not have arisen so distinctly to her mind, at this time, had not the terrors of
Valancourt presented to her such obvious exaggerations of her danger, as
incited her to distrust the fallacies of passion. But, while she endeavoured in
the gentlest manner to convince him of his error, she plunged him into a new
one. His voice and countenance changed to an expression of dark despair.
“Emily!” said he, “this, this moment is the bitterest that is
yet come to me. You do not—cannot love me!—It would be impossible
for you to reason thus coolly, thus deliberately, if you did. I, I am
torn with anguish at the prospect of our separation, and of the evils that may
await you in consequence of it; I would encounter any hazards to prevent
it—to save you. No! Emily, no!—you cannot love me.”

“We have now little time to waste in exclamation, or assertion,”
said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion: “if you are yet to learn
how dear you are, and ever must be, to my heart, no assurances of mine can give
you conviction.”

The last words faltered on her lips, and her tears flowed fast. These words and
tears brought, once more, and with instantaneous force, conviction of her love
to Valancourt. He could only exclaim, “Emily! Emily!” and weep over
the hand he pressed to his lips; but she, after some moments, again roused
herself from the indulgence of sorrow, and said, “I must leave you; it is
late, and my absence from the château may be discovered. Think of me—love
me—when I am far away; the belief of this will be my comfort!”

“Think of you!—love you!” exclaimed Valancourt.

“Try to moderate these transports,” said Emily, “for my sake,
try.”

“For your sake!”

“Yes, for my sake,” replied Emily, in a tremulous voice, “I
cannot leave you thus!”

“Then do not leave me!” said Valancourt, with quickness. “Why
should we part, or part for longer than till tomorrow?”

“I am, indeed I am, unequal to these moments,” replied Emily,
“you tear my heart, but I never can consent to this hasty, imprudent
proposal!”

“If we could command our time, my Emily, it should not be thus hasty; we
must submit to circumstances.”

“We must indeed! I have already told you all my heart—my spirits
are gone. You allowed the force of my objections, till your tenderness called
up vague terrors, which have given us both unnecessary anguish. Spare me! do
not oblige me to repeat the reasons I have already urged.”

“Spare you!” cried Valancourt, “I am a wretch—a very
wretch, that have felt only for myself!—I! who ought to have shown the
fortitude of a man, who ought to have supported you, I have increased your
sufferings by the conduct of a child! Forgive me, Emily! think of the
distraction of my mind now that I am about to part with all that is dear to
me—and forgive me! When you are gone, I shall recollect with bitter
remorse what I have made you suffer, and shall wish in vain that I could see
you, if only for a moment, that I might sooth your grief.”

Tears again interrupted his voice, and Emily wept with him. “I will show
myself more worthy of your love,” said Valancourt, at length; “I
will not prolong these moments. My Emily—my own Emily! never forget me!
God knows when we shall meet again! I resign you to his care.—O
God!—O God!—protect and bless her!”

He pressed her hand to his heart. Emily sunk almost lifeless on his bosom, and
neither wept, nor spoke. Valancourt, now commanding his own distress, tried to
comfort and reassure her, but she appeared totally unaffected by what he said,
and a sigh, which she uttered, now and then, was all that proved she had not
fainted.

He supported her slowly towards the château, weeping and speaking to her; but
she answered only in sighs, till, having reached the gate, that terminated the
avenue, she seemed to have recovered her consciousness, and, looking round,
perceived how near they were to the château. “We must part here,”
said she, stopping, “Why prolong these moments? Teach me the fortitude I
have forgot.”

Valancourt struggled to assume a composed air. “Farewell, my love!”
said he, in a voice of solemn tenderness—“trust me we shall meet
again—meet for each other—meet to part no more!” His voice
faltered, but, recovering it, he proceeded in a firmer tone. “You know
not what I shall suffer, till I hear from you; I shall omit no opportunity of
conveying to you my letters, yet I tremble to think how few may occur. And
trust me, love, for your dear sake, I will try to bear this absence with
fortitude. O how little I have shown tonight!”

“Farewell!” said Emily faintly. “When you are gone, I shall
think of many things I would have said to you.” “And I of
many—many!” said Valancourt; “I never left you yet, that I
did not immediately remember some question, or some entreaty, or some
circumstance, concerning my love, that I earnestly wished to mention, and feel
wretched because I could not. O Emily! this countenance, on which I now
gaze—will, in a moment, be gone from my eyes, and not all the efforts of
fancy will be able to recall it with exactness. O! what an infinite difference
between this moment and the next!—now, I am in your presence, can
behold you! then, all will be a dreary blank—and I shall be a
wanderer, exiled from my only home!”

Valancourt again pressed her to his heart, and held her there in silence,
weeping. Tears once again calmed her oppressed mind. They again bade each other
farewell, lingered a moment, and then parted. Valancourt seemed to force
himself from the spot; he passed hastily up the avenue, and Emily, as she moved
slowly towards the château, heard his distant steps. She listened to the
sounds, as they sunk fainter and fainter, till the melancholy stillness of
night alone remained; and then hurried to her chamber, to seek repose, which,
alas! was fled from her wretchedness.

VOLUME 2

CHAPTER I

Where’er I roam, whatever realms I see,
My heart untravell’d still shall turn to thee.
                    GOLDSMITH

The carriages were at the gates at an early hour; the bustle of the domestics,
passing to and fro in the galleries, awakened Emily from harassing slumbers:
her unquiet mind had, during the night, presented her with terrific images and
obscure circumstances, concerning her affection and her future life. She now
endeavoured to chase away the impressions they had left on her fancy; but from
imaginary evils she awoke to the consciousness of real ones. Recollecting that
she had parted with Valancourt, perhaps for ever, her heart sickened as memory
revived. But she tried to dismiss the dismal forebodings that crowded on her
mind, and to restrain the sorrow which she could not subdue; efforts which
diffused over the settled melancholy of her countenance an expression of
tempered resignation, as a thin veil, thrown over the features of beauty,
renders them more interesting by a partial concealment. But Madame Montoni
observed nothing in this countenance except its usual paleness, which attracted
her censure. She told her niece, that she had been indulging in fanciful
sorrows, and begged she would have more regard for decorum, than to let the
world see that she could not renounce an improper attachment; at which
Emily’s pale cheek became flushed with crimson, but it was the blush of
pride, and she made no answer. Soon after, Montoni entered the breakfast room,
spoke little, and seemed impatient to be gone.

The windows of this room opened upon the garden. As Emily passed them, she saw
the spot where she had parted with Valancourt on the preceding night: the
remembrance pressed heavily on her heart, and she turned hastily away from the
object that had awakened it.

The baggage being at length adjusted, the travellers entered their carriages,
and Emily would have left the château without one sigh of regret, had it not
been situated in the neighbourhood of Valancourt’s residence.

From a little eminence she looked back upon Thoulouse, and the far-seen plains
of Gascony, beyond which the broken summits of the Pyrenees appeared on the
distant horizon, lighted up by a morning sun. “Dear pleasant
mountains!” said she to herself, “how long may it be ere I see ye
again, and how much may happen to make me miserable in the interval! Oh, could
I now be certain, that I should ever return to ye, and find that Valancourt
still lived for me, I should go in peace! He will still gaze on ye, gaze when I
am far away!”

The trees, that impended over the high banks of the road and formed a line of
perspective with the distant country, now threatened to exclude the view of
them; but the bluish mountains still appeared beyond the dark foliage, and
Emily continued to lean from the coach window, till at length the closing
branches shut them from her sight.

Another object soon caught her attention. She had scarcely looked at a person
who walked along the bank, with his hat, in which was the military feather,
drawn over his eyes, before, at the sound of wheels, he suddenly turned, and
she perceived that it was Valancourt himself, who waved his hand, sprung into
the road, and through the window of the carriage put a letter into her hand. He
endeavoured to smile through the despair that overspread his countenance as she
passed on. The remembrance of that smile seemed impressed on Emily’s mind
for ever. She leaned from the window, and saw him on a knoll of the broken
bank, leaning against the high trees that waved over him, and pursuing the
carriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, and she continued to gaze till
distance confused his figure, and at length another turn of the road entirely
separated him from her sight.

Having stopped to take up Signor Cavigni at a château on the road, the
travellers, of whom Emily was disrespectfully seated with Madame
Montoni’s woman in a second carriage, pursued their way over the plains
of Languedoc. The presence of this servant restrained Emily from reading
Valancourt’s letter, for she did not choose to expose the emotions it
might occasion to the observation of any person. Yet such was her wish to read
this his last communication, that her trembling hand was every moment on the
point of breaking the seal.

At length they reached the village, where they staid only to change horses,
without alighting, and it was not till they stopped to dine, that Emily had an
opportunity of reading the letter. Though she had never doubted the sincerity
of Valancourt’s affection, the fresh assurances she now received of it
revived her spirits; she wept over his letter in tenderness, laid it by to be
referred to when they should be particularly depressed, and then thought of him
with much less anguish than she had done since they parted. Among some other
requests, which were interesting to her, because expressive of his tenderness,
and because a compliance with them seemed to annihilate for a while the pain of
absence, he entreated she would always think of him at sunset. “You will
then meet me in thought,” said he; “I shall constantly watch the
sunset, and I shall be happy in the belief, that your eyes are fixed upon the
same object with mine, and that our minds are conversing. You know not, Emily,
the comfort I promise myself from these moments; but I trust you will
experience it.”

It is unnecessary to say with what emotion Emily, on this evening, watched the
declining sun, over a long extent of plains, on which she saw it set without
interruption, and sink towards the province which Valancourt inhabited. After
this hour her mind became far more tranquil and resigned, than it had been
since the marriage of Montoni and her aunt.

During several days the travellers journeyed over the plains of Languedoc; and
then entering Dauphiny, and winding for some time among the mountains of that
romantic province, they quitted their carriages and began to ascend the Alps.
And here such scenes of sublimity opened upon them as no colours of language
must dare to paint! Emily’s mind was even so much engaged with new and
wonderful images, that they sometimes banished the idea of Valancourt, though
they more frequently revived it. These brought to her recollection the
prospects among the Pyrenees, which they had admired together, and had believed
nothing could excel in grandeur. How often did she wish to express to him the
new emotions which this astonishing scenery awakened, and that he could partake
of them! Sometimes too she endeavoured to anticipate his remarks, and almost
imagined him present. She seemed to have arisen into another world, and to have
left every trifling thought, every trifling sentiment, in that below; those
only of grandeur and sublimity now dilated her mind, and elevated the
affections of her heart.

With what emotions of sublimity, softened by tenderness, did she meet
Valancourt in thought, at the customary hour of sunset, when, wandering among
the Alps, she watched the glorious orb sink amid their summits, his last tints
die away on their snowy points, and a solemn obscurity steal over the scene!
And when the last gleam had faded, she turned her eyes from the west with
somewhat of the melancholy regret that is experienced after the departure of a
beloved friend; while these lonely feelings were heightened by the spreading
gloom, and by the low sounds, heard only when darkness confines attention,
which make the general stillness more impressive—leaves shook by the air,
the last sigh of the breeze that lingers after sunset, or the murmur of
distant streams.

During the first days of this journey among the Alps, the scenery exhibited a
wonderful mixture of solitude and inhabitation, of cultivation and barrenness.
On the edge of tremendous precipices, and within the hollow of the cliffs,
below which the clouds often floated, were seen villages, spires, and convent
towers; while green pastures and vineyards spread their hues at the feet of
perpendicular rocks of marble, or of granite, whose points, tufted with alpine
shrubs, or exhibiting only massy crags, rose above each other, till they
terminated in the snowtopped mountain, whence the torrent fell, that thundered
along the valley.

The snow was not yet melted on the summit of Mount Cenis, over which the
travellers passed; but Emily, as she looked upon its clear lake and extended
plain, surrounded by broken cliffs, saw, in imagination, the verdant beauty it
would exhibit when the snows should be gone, and the shepherds, leading up the
midsummer flocks from Piedmont, to pasture on its flowery summit, should add
Arcadian figures to Arcadian landscape.

As she descended on the Italian side, the precipices became still more
tremendous, and the prospects still more wild and majestic, over which the
shifting lights threw all the pomp of colouring. Emily delighted to observe the
snowy tops of the mountains under the passing influence of the day, blushing
with morning, glowing with the brightness of noon, or just tinted with the
purple evening. The haunt of man could now only be discovered by the simple hut
of the shepherd and the hunter, or by the rough pine bridge thrown across the
torrent, to assist the latter in his chase of the chamois over crags where, but
for this vestige of man, it would have been believed only the chamois or the
wolf dared to venture. As Emily gazed upon one of these perilous bridges, with
the cataract foaming beneath it, some images came to her mind, which she
afterwards combined in the following

STORIED SONNET

The weary traveller, who all night long
Has climb’d among the Alps’ tremendous steeps,
Skirting the pathless precipice, where throng
Wild forms of danger; as he onward creeps
If, chance, his anxious eye at distance sees
The mountain-shepherd’s solitary home,
Peeping from forth the moon-illumin’d trees,
What sudden transports to his bosom come!
But, if between some hideous chasm yawn,
Where the cleft pine a doubtful bridge displays,
In dreadful silence, on the brink, forlorn
He stands, and views in the faint rays
Far, far below, the torrent’s rising surge,
And listens to the wild impetuous roar;
Still eyes the depth, still shudders on the verge,
Fears to return, nor dares to venture o’er.
Desperate, at length the tottering plank he tries,
His weak steps slide, he shrieks, he sinks—he dies!

Emily, often as she travelled among the clouds, watched in silent awe their
billowy surges rolling below; sometimes, wholly closing upon the scene, they
appeared like a world of chaos, and, at others, spreading thinly, they opened
and admitted partial catches of the landscape—the torrent, whose
astounding roar had never failed, tumbling down the rocky chasm, huge cliffs
white with snow, or the dark summits of the pine forests, that stretched
mid-way down the mountains. But who may describe her rapture, when, having
passed through a sea of vapour, she caught a first view of Italy; when, from
the ridge of one of those tremendous precipices that hang upon Mount Cenis and
guard the entrance of that enchanting country, she looked down through the
lower clouds, and, as they floated away, saw the grassy vales of Piedmont at
her feet, and, beyond, the plains of Lombardy extending to the farthest
distance, at which appeared, on the faint horizon, the doubtful towers of
Turin?

The solitary grandeur of the objects that immediately surrounded her, the
mountain-region towering above, the deep precipices that fell beneath, the
waving blackness of the forests of pine and oak, which skirted their feet, or
hung within their recesses, the headlong torrents that, dashing among their
cliffs, sometimes appeared like a cloud of mist, at others like a sheet of
ice—these were features which received a higher character of sublimity
from the reposing beauty of the Italian landscape below, stretching to the wide
horizon, where the same melting blue tint seemed to unite earth and sky.

Madame Montoni only shuddered as she looked down precipices near whose edge the
chairmen trotted lightly and swiftly, almost, as the chamois bounded, and from
which Emily too recoiled; but with her fears were mingled such various emotions
of delight, such admiration, astonishment, and awe, as she had never
experienced before.

Meanwhile the carriers, having come to a landing-place, stopped to rest, and
the travellers being seated on the point of a cliff, Montoni and Cavigni
renewed a dispute concerning Hannibal’s passage over the Alps, Montoni
contending that he entered Italy by way of Mount Cenis, and Cavigni, that he
passed over Mount St. Bernard. The subject brought to Emily’s imagination
the disasters he had suffered in this bold and perilous adventure. She saw his
vast armies winding among the defiles, and over the tremendous cliffs of the
mountains, which at night were lighted up by his fires, or by the torches which
he caused to be carried when he pursued his indefatigable march. In the eye of
fancy, she perceived the gleam of arms through the duskiness of night, the
glitter of spears and helmets, and the banners floating dimly on the twilight;
while now and then the blast of a distant trumpet echoed along the defile, and
the signal was answered by a momentary clash of arms. She looked with horror
upon the mountaineers, perched on the higher cliffs, assailing the troops below
with broken fragments of the mountain; on soldiers and elephants tumbling
headlong down the lower precipices; and, as she listened to the rebounding
rocks, that followed their fall, the terrors of fancy yielded to those of
reality, and she shuddered to behold herself on the dizzy height, whence she
had pictured the descent of others.

Madame Montoni, meantime, as she looked upon Italy, was contemplating in
imagination the splendour of palaces and the grandeur of castles, such as she
believed she was going to be mistress of at Venice and in the Apennine, and she
became, in idea, little less than a princess. Being no longer under the alarms
which had deterred her from giving entertainments to the beauties of Thoulouse,
whom Montoni had mentioned with more eclât to his own vanity than credit
to their discretion, or regard to truth, she determined to give concerts,
though she had neither ear nor taste for music; conversazione, though
she had no talents for conversation; and to outvie, if possible, in the
gaieties of her parties and the magnificence of her liveries, all the noblesse
of Venice. This blissful reverie was somewhat obscured, when she recollected
the Signor, her husband, who, though he was not averse to the profit which
sometimes results from such parties, had always shown a contempt of the
frivolous parade that sometimes attends them; till she considered that his
pride might be gratified by displaying, among his own friends, in his native
city, the wealth which he had neglected in France; and she courted again the
splendid illusions that had charmed her before.

The travellers, as they descended, gradually, exchanged the region of winter
for the genial warmth and beauty of spring. The sky began to assume that serene
and beautiful tint peculiar to the climate of Italy; patches of young verdure,
fragrant shrubs and flowers looked gaily among the rocks, often fringing their
rugged brows, or hanging in tufts from their broken sides; and the buds of the
oak and mountain ash were expanding into foliage. Descending lower, the orange
and the myrtle, every now and then, appeared in some sunny nook, with their
yellow blossoms peeping from among the dark green of their leaves, and mingling
with the scarlet flowers of the pomegranate and the paler ones of the arbutus,
that ran mantling to the crags above; while, lower still, spread the pastures
of Piedmont, where early flocks were cropping the luxuriant herbage of spring.

The river Doria, which, rising on the summit of Mount Cenis, had dashed for
many leagues over the precipices that bordered the road, now began to assume a
less impetuous, though scarcely less romantic character, as it approached the
green valleys of Piedmont, into which the travellers descended with the evening
sun; and Emily found herself once more amid the tranquil beauty of pastoral
scenery; among flocks and herds, and slopes tufted with woods of lively verdure
and with beautiful shrubs, such as she had often seen waving luxuriantly over
the alps above. The verdure of the pasturage, now varied with the hues of early
flowers, among which were yellow ranunculuses and pansey violets of delicious
fragrance, she had never seen excelled.—Emily almost wished to become a
peasant of Piedmont, to inhabit one of the pleasant embowered cottages which
she saw peeping beneath the cliffs, and to pass her careless hours among these
romantic landscapes. To the hours, the months, she was to pass under the
dominion of Montoni, she looked with apprehension; while those which were
departed she remembered with regret and sorrow.

In the present scenes her fancy often gave her the figure of Valancourt, whom
she saw on a point of the cliffs, gazing with awe and admiration on the imagery
around him; or wandering pensively along the vale below, frequently pausing to
look back upon the scenery, and then, his countenance glowing with the
poet’s fire, pursuing his way to some overhanging heights. When she again
considered the time and the distance that were to separate them, that every
step she now took lengthened this distance, her heart sunk, and the surrounding
landscape charmed her no more.

The travellers, passing Novalesa, reached, after the evening had closed, the
small and ancient town of Susa, which had formerly guarded this pass of the
Alps into Piedmont. The heights which command it had, since the invention of
artillery, rendered its fortifications useless; but these romantic heights,
seen by moonlight, with the town below, surrounded by its walls and
watchtowers, and partially illumined, exhibited an interesting picture to
Emily. Here they rested for the night at an inn, which had little accommodation
to boast of; but the travellers brought with them the hunger that gives
delicious flavour to the coarsest viands, and the weariness that ensures
repose; and here Emily first caught a strain of Italian music, on Italian
ground. As she sat after supper at a little window, that opened upon the
country, observing an effect of the moonlight on the broken surface of the
mountains, and remembering that on such a night as this she once had sat with
her father and Valancourt, resting upon a cliff of the Pyrenees, she heard from
below the long-drawn notes of a violin, of such tone and delicacy of
expression, as harmonised exactly with the tender emotions she was indulging,
and both charmed and surprised her. Cavigni, who approached the window, smiled
at her surprise. “This is nothing extraordinary,” said he,
“you will hear the same, perhaps, at every inn on our way. It is one of
our landlord’s family who plays, I doubt not,” Emily, as she
listened, thought he could be scarcely less than a professor of music whom she
heard; and the sweet and plaintive strains soon lulled her into a reverie, from
which she was very unwillingly roused by the raillery of Cavigni, and by the
voice of Montoni, who gave orders to a servant to have the carriages ready at
an early hour on the following morning; and added, that he meant to dine at
Turin.

Madame Montoni was exceedingly rejoiced to be once more on level ground; and,
after giving a long detail of the various terrors she had suffered, which she
forgot that she was describing to the companions of her dangers, she added a
hope, that she should soon be beyond the view of these horrid mountains,
“which all the world,” said she, “should not tempt me to
cross again.” Complaining of fatigue she soon retired to rest, and Emily
withdrew to her own room, when she understood from Annette, her aunt’s
woman, that Cavigni was nearly right in his conjecture concerning the musician,
who had awakened the violin with so much taste, for that he was the son of a
peasant inhabiting the neighbouring valley. “He is going to the Carnival
at Venice,” added Annette, “for they say he has a fine hand at
playing, and will get a world of money; and the Carnival is just going to
begin: but for my part, I should like to live among these pleasant woods and
hills, better than in a town; and they say Ma’amselle, we shall see no
woods, or hills, or fields, at Venice, for that it is built in the very middle
of the sea.”

Emily agreed with the talkative Annette, that this young man was making a
change for the worse, and could not forbear silently lamenting, that he should
be drawn from the innocence and beauty of these scenes, to the corrupt ones of
that voluptuous city.

When she was alone, unable to sleep, the landscapes of her native home, with
Valancourt, and the circumstances of her departure, haunted her fancy; she drew
pictures of social happiness amidst the grand simplicity of nature, such as she
feared she had bade farewell to for ever; and then, the idea of this young
Piedmontese, thus ignorantly sporting with his happiness, returned to her
thoughts, and, glad to escape a while from the pressure of nearer interests,
she indulged her fancy in composing the following lines.

THE PIEDMONTESE

Ah, merry swain, who laugh’d along the vales,
And with your gay pipe made the mountains ring,
Why leave your cot, your woods, and thymy gales,
And friends belov’d, for aught that wealth can bring?
He goes to wake o’er moonlight seas the string,
Venetian gold his untaught fancy hails!
Yet oft of home his simple carols sing,
And his steps pause, as the last Alp he scales.
Once more he turns to view his native scene—
Far, far below, as roll the clouds away,
He spies his cabin ’mid the pine-tops green,
The well-known woods, clear brook, and pastures gay;
And thinks of friends and parents left behind,
Of sylvan revels, dance, and festive song;
And hears the faint reed swelling in the wind;
And his sad sighs the distant notes prolong!
Thus went the swain, till mountain-shadows fell,
And dimm’d the landscape to his aching sight;
And must he leave the vales he loves so well!
Can foreign wealth, and shows, his heart delight?
No, happy vales! your wild rocks still shall hear
His pipe, light sounding on the morning breeze;
Still shall he lead the flocks to streamlet clear,
And watch at eve beneath the western trees.
Away, Venetian gold—your charm is o’er!
And now his swift step seeks the lowland bow’rs,
Where, through the leaves, his cottage light once more
Guides him to happy friends, and jocund hours.
Ah, merry swain! that laugh along the vales,
And with your gay pipe make the mountains ring,
Your cot, your woods, your thymy-scented gales—
And friends belov’d, more joy than wealth can bring!

CHAPTER II

Titania. If you will patiently dance in our round,
And see our moonlight revels, go with us.
                    MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

Early on the following morning, the travellers set out for Turin. The luxuriant
plain, that extends from the feet of the Alps to that magnificent city, was not
then, as now, shaded by an avenue of trees nine miles in length; but
plantations of olives, mulberry and palms, festooned with vines, mingled with
the pastoral scenery, through with the rapid Po, after its descent from the
mountains, wandered to meet the humble Doria at Turin. As they advanced towards
this city, the Alps, seen at some distance, began to appear in all their awful
sublimity; chain rising over chain in long succession, their higher points
darkened by the hovering clouds, sometimes hid, and at others seen shooting up
far above them; while their lower steeps, broken into fantastic forms, were
touched with blue and purplish tints, which, as they changed in light and
shade, seemed to open new scenes to the eye. To the east stretched the plains
of Lombardy, with the towers of Turin rising at a distance; and beyond, the
Apennines, bounding the horizon.

The general magnificence of that city, with its vistas of churches and palaces,
branching from the grand square, each opening to a landscape of the distant
Alps or Apennines, was not only such as Emily had never seen in France, but
such as she had never imagined.

Montoni, who had been often at Turin, and cared little about views of any kind,
did not comply with his wife’s request, that they might survey some of
the palaces; but staying only till the necessary refreshments could be
obtained, they set forward for Venice with all possible rapidity.
Montoni’s manner, during this journey, was grave, and even haughty; and
towards Madame Montoni he was more especially reserved; but it was not the
reserve of respect so much as of pride and discontent. Of Emily he took little
notice. With Cavigni his conversations were commonly on political or military
topics, such as the convulsed state of their country rendered at this time
particularly interesting, Emily observed, that, at the mention of any daring
exploit, Montoni’s eyes lost their sullenness, and seemed instantaneously
to gleam with fire; yet they still retained somewhat of a lurking cunning, and
she sometimes thought that their fire partook more of the glare of malice than
the brightness of valour, though the latter would well have harmonised with the
high chivalric air of his figure, in which Cavigni, with all his gay and
gallant manners, was his inferior.

On entering the Milanese, the gentlemen exchanged their French hats for the
Italian cap of scarlet cloth, embroidered; and Emily was somewhat surprised to
observe, that Montoni added to his the military plume, while Cavigni retained
only the feather: which was usually worn with such caps: but she at length
concluded, that Montoni assumed this ensign of a soldier for convenience, as a
means of passing with more safety through a country over-run with parties of
the military.

Over the beautiful plains of this country the devastations of war were
frequently visible. Where the lands had not been suffered to lie uncultivated,
they were often tracked with the steps of the spoiler; the vines were torn down
from the branches that had supported them, the olives trampled upon the ground,
and even the groves of mulberry trees had been hewn by the enemy to light fires
that destroyed the hamlets and villages of their owners. Emily turned her eyes
with a sigh from these painful vestiges of contention, to the Alps of the
Grison, that overlooked them to the north, whose awful solitudes seemed to
offer to persecuted man a secure asylum.

The travellers frequently distinguished troops of soldiers moving at a
distance; and they experienced, at the little inns on the road, the scarcity of
provision and other inconveniences, which are a part of the consequence of
intestine war; but they had never reason to be much alarmed for their immediate
safety, and they passed on to Milan with little interruption of any kind, where
they staid not to survey the grandeur of the city, or even to view its vast
cathedral, which was then building.

Beyond Milan, the country wore the aspect of a ruder devastation; and though
everything seemed now quiet, the repose was like that of death, spread over
features, which retain the impression of the last convulsions.

It was not till they had passed the eastern limits of the Milanese, that the
travellers saw any troops since they had left Milan, when, as the evening was
drawing to a close, they descried what appeared to be an army winding onward
along the distant plains, whose spears and other arms caught the last rays of
the sun. As the column advanced through a part of the road, contracted between
two hillocks, some of the commanders, on horseback, were distinguished on a
small eminence, pointing and making signals for the march; while several of the
officers were riding along the line directing its progress, according to the
signs communicated by those above; and others, separating from the vanguard,
which had emerged from the pass, were riding carelessly along the plains at
some distance to the right of the army.

As they drew nearer, Montoni, distinguishing the feathers that waved in their
caps, and the banners and liveries of the bands that followed them, thought he
knew this to be the small army commanded by the famous captain Utaldo, with
whom, as well as with some of the other chiefs, he was personally acquainted.
He, therefore, gave orders that the carriages should draw up by the side of the
road, to await their arrival, and give them the pass. A faint strain of martial
music now stole by, and, gradually strengthening as the troops approached,
Emily distinguished the drums and trumpets, with the clash of cymbals and of
arms, that were struck by a small party, in time to the march.

Montoni being now certain that these were the bands of the victorious Utaldo,
leaned from the carriage window, and hailed their general by waving his cap in
the air; which compliment the chief returned by raising his spear, and then
letting it down again suddenly, while some of his officers, who were riding at
a distance from the troops, came up to the carriage, and saluted Montoni as an
old acquaintance. The captain himself soon after arriving, his bands halted
while he conversed with Montoni, whom he appeared much rejoiced to see; and
from what he said, Emily understood that this was a victorious army, returning
into their own principality; while the numerous waggons, that accompanied them,
contained the rich spoils of the enemy, their own wounded soldiers, and the
prisoners they had taken in battle, who were to be ransomed when the peace,
then negociating between the neighbouring states, should be ratified. The
chiefs on the following day were to separate, and each, taking his share of the
spoil, was to return with his own band to his castle. This was therefore to be
an evening of uncommon and general festivity, in commemoration of the victory
they had accomplished together, and of the farewell which the commanders were
about to take of each other.

Emily, as these officers conversed with Montoni, observed with admiration,
tinctured with awe, their high martial air, mingled with the haughtiness of the
noblesse of those days, and heightened by the gallantry of their dress, by the
plumes towering on their caps, the armorial coat, Persian sash, and ancient
Spanish cloak. Utaldo, telling Montoni that his army were going to encamp for
the night near a village at only a few miles distance, invited him to turn back
and partake of their festivity, assuring the ladies also, that they should be
pleasantly accommodated; but Montoni excused himself, adding, that it was his
design to reach Verona that evening; and, after some conversation concerning
the state of the country towards that city, they parted.

The travellers proceeded without any interruption; but it was some hours after
sunset before they arrived at Verona, whose beautiful environs were therefore
not seen by Emily till the following morning; when, leaving that pleasant town
at an early hour, they set off for Padua, where they embarked on the Brenta for
Venice. Here the scene was entirely changed; no vestiges of war, such as had
deformed the plains of the Milanese, appeared; on the contrary, all was peace
and elegance. The verdant banks of the Brenta exhibited a continued landscape
of beauty, gaiety, and splendour. Emily gazed with admiration on the villas of
the Venetian noblesse, with their cool porticos and colonnades, overhung with
poplars and cypresses of majestic height and lively verdure; on their rich
orangeries, whose blossoms perfumed the air, and on the luxuriant willows, that
dipped their light leaves in the wave, and sheltered from the sun the gay
parties whose music came at intervals on the breeze. The Carnival did, indeed,
appear to extend from Venice along the whole line of these enchanting shores;
the river was gay with boats passing to that city, exhibiting the fantastic
diversity of a masquerade in the dresses of the people within them; and,
towards evening, groups of dancers frequently were seen beneath the trees.

Cavigni, meanwhile, informed her of the names of the noblemen to whom the
several villas they passed belonged, adding light sketches of their characters,
such as served to amuse rather than to inform, exhibiting his own wit instead
of the delineation of truth. Emily was sometimes diverted by his conversation;
but his gaiety did not entertain Madame Montoni, as it had formerly done; she
was frequently grave, and Montoni retained his usual reserve.

Nothing could exceed Emily’s admiration on her first view of Venice, with
its islets, palaces, and towers rising out of the sea, whose clear surface
reflected the tremulous picture in all its colours. The sun, sinking in the
west, tinted the waves and the lofty mountains of Friuli, which skirt the
northern shores of the Adriatic, with a saffron glow, while on the marble
porticos and colonnades of St. Mark were thrown the rich lights and shades of
evening. As they glided on, the grander features of this city appeared more
distinctly: its terraces, crowned with airy yet majestic fabrics, touched, as
they now were, with the splendour of the setting sun, appeared as if they had
been called up from the ocean by the wand of an enchanter, rather than reared
by mortal hands.

The sun, soon after, sinking to the lower world, the shadow of the earth stole
gradually over the waves, and then up the towering sides of the mountains of
Friuli, till it extinguished even the last upward beams that had lingered on
their summits, and the melancholy purple of evening drew over them, like a thin
veil. How deep, how beautiful was the tranquillity that wrapped the scene! All
nature seemed to repose; the finest emotions of the soul were alone awake.
Emily’s eyes filled with tears of admiration and sublime devotion, as she
raised them over the sleeping world to the vast heavens, and heard the notes of
solemn music, that stole over the waters from a distance. She listened in still
rapture, and no person of the party broke the charm by an enquiry. The sounds
seemed to grow on the air; for so smoothly did the barge glide along, that its
motion was not perceivable, and the fairy city appeared approaching to welcome
the strangers. They now distinguished a female voice, accompanied by a few
instruments, singing a soft and mournful air; and its fine expression, as
sometimes it seemed pleading with the impassioned tenderness of love, and then
languishing into the cadence of hopeless grief, declared, that it flowed from
no feigned sensibility. Ah! thought Emily, as she sighed and remembered
Valancourt, those strains come from the heart!

She looked round, with anxious enquiry; the deep twilight, that had fallen over
the scene, admitted only imperfect images to the eye, but, at some distance on
the sea, she thought she perceived a gondola: a chorus of voices and
instruments now swelled on the air—so sweet, so solemn! it seemed like
the hymn of angels descending through the silence of night! Now it died away,
and fancy almost beheld the holy choir reascending towards heaven; then again
it swelled with the breeze, trembled awhile, and again died into silence. It
brought to Emily’s recollection some lines of her late father, and she
repeated in a low voice,

Oft I hear,
Upon the silence of the midnight air,
Celestial voices swell in holy chorus
That bears the soul to heaven!

The deep stillness, that succeeded, was as expressive as the strain that had
just ceased. It was uninterrupted for several minutes, till a general sigh
seemed to release the company from their enchantment. Emily, however, long
indulged the pleasing sadness, that had stolen upon her spirits; but the gay
and busy scene that appeared, as the barge approached St. Mark’s Place,
at length roused her attention. The rising moon, which threw a shadowy light
upon the terraces, and illumined the porticos and magnificent arcades that
crowned them, discovered the various company, whose light steps, soft guitars,
and softer voices, echoed through the colonnades.

The music they heard before now passed Montoni’s barge, in one of the
gondolas, of which several were seen skimming along the moonlight sea, full of
gay parties, catching the cool breeze. Most of these had music, made sweeter by
the waves over which it floated, and by the measured sound of oars, as they
dashed the sparkling tide. Emily gazed, and listened, and thought herself in a
fairy scene; even Madame Montoni was pleased; Montoni congratulated himself on
his return to Venice, which he called the first city in the world, and Cavigni
was more gay and animated than ever.

The barge passed on to the grand canal, where Montoni’s mansion was
situated. And here, other forms of beauty and of grandeur, such as her
imagination had never painted, were unfolded to Emily in the palaces of
Sansovino and Palladio, as she glided along the waves. The air bore no sounds,
but those of sweetness, echoing along each margin of the canal, and from
gondolas on its surface, while groups of masks were seen dancing on the
moonlight terraces, and seemed almost to realise the romance of fairyland.

The barge stopped before the portico of a large house, from whence a servant of
Montoni crossed the terrace, and immediately the party disembarked. From the
portico they passed a noble hall to a staircase of marble, which led to a
saloon, fitted up in a style of magnificence that surprised Emily. The walls
and ceilings were adorned with historical and allegorical paintings, in
fresco; silver tripods, depending from chains of the same metal,
illumined the apartment, the floor of which was covered with Indian mats
painted in a variety of colours and devices; the couches and drapery of the
lattices were of pale green silk, embroidered and fringed with green and gold.
Balcony lattices opened upon the grand canal, whence rose a confusion of voices
and of musical instruments, and the breeze that gave freshness to the
apartment. Emily, considering the gloomy temper of Montoni, looked upon the
splendid furniture of this house with surprise, and remembered the report of
his being a man of broken fortune, with astonishment. “Ah!” said
she to herself, “if Valancourt could but see this mansion, what peace
would it give him! He would then be convinced that the report was
groundless.”

Madame Montoni seemed to assume the air of a princess; but Montoni was restless
and discontented, and did not even observe the civility of bidding her welcome
to her home.

Soon after his arrival, he ordered his gondola, and, with Cavigni, went out to
mingle in the scenes of the evening. Madame then became serious and thoughtful.
Emily, who was charmed with everything she saw, endeavoured to enliven her;
but reflection had not, with Madame Montoni, subdued caprice and ill-humour,
and her answers discovered so much of both, that Emily gave up the attempt of
diverting her, and withdrew to a lattice, to amuse herself with the scene
without, so new and so enchanting.

The first object that attracted her notice was a group of dancers on the
terrace below, led by a guitar and some other instruments. The girl, who struck
the guitar, and another, who flourished a tambourine, passed on in a dancing
step, and with a light grace and gaiety of heart, that would have subdued the
goddess of spleen in her worst humour. After these came a group of fantastic
figures, some dressed as gondolieri, others as minstrels, while others seemed
to defy all description. They sung in parts, their voices accompanied by a few
soft instruments. At a little distance from the portico they stopped, and Emily
distinguished the verses of Ariosto. They sung of the wars of the Moors against
Charlemagne, and then of the woes of Orlando: afterwards the measure changed,
and the melancholy sweetness of Petrarch succeeded. The magic of his grief was
assisted by all that Italian music and Italian expression, heightened by the
enchantments of Venetian moonlight, could give.

Emily, as she listened, caught the pensive enthusiasm; her tears flowed
silently, while her fancy bore her far away to France and to Valancourt. Each
succeeding sonnet, more full of charming sadness than the last, seemed to bind
the spell of melancholy: with extreme regret she saw the musicians move on, and
her attention followed the strain till the last faint warble died in air. She
then remained sunk in that pensive tranquillity which soft music leaves on the
mind—a state like that produced by the view of a beautiful landscape by
moonlight, or by the recollection of scenes marked with the tenderness of
friends lost for ever, and with sorrows, which time has mellowed into mild
regret. Such scenes are indeed, to the mind, like “those faint traces
which the memory bears of music that is past.”

Other sounds soon awakened her attention: it was the solemn harmony of horns,
that swelled from a distance; and, observing the gondolas arrange themselves
along the margin of the terraces, she threw on her veil, and, stepping into the
balcony, discerned, in the distant perspective of the canal, something like a
procession, floating on the light surface of the water: as it approached, the
horns and other instruments mingled sweetly, and soon after the fabled deities
of the city seemed to have arisen from the ocean; for Neptune, with Venice
personified as his queen, came on the undulating waves, surrounded by tritons
and sea-nymphs. The fantastic splendour of this spectacle, together with the
grandeur of the surrounding palaces, appeared like the vision of a poet
suddenly embodied, and the fanciful images, which it awakened in Emily’s
mind, lingered there long after the procession had passed away. She indulged
herself in imagining what might be the manners and delights of a sea-nymph,
till she almost wished to throw off the habit of mortality, and plunge into the
green wave to participate them.

“How delightful,” said she, “to live amidst the coral bowers
and crystal caverns of the ocean, with my sister nymphs, and listen to the
sounding waters above, and to the soft shells of the tritons! and then, after
sunset, to skim on the surface of the waves round wild rocks and along
sequestered shores, where, perhaps, some pensive wanderer comes to weep! Then
would I soothe his sorrows with my sweet music, and offer him from a shell some
of the delicious fruit that hangs round Neptune’s palace.”

She was recalled from her reverie to a mere mortal supper, and could not
forbear smiling at the fancies she had been indulging, and at her conviction of
the serious displeasure, which Madame Montoni would have expressed, could she
have been made acquainted with them.

After supper, her aunt sat late, but Montoni did not return, and she at length
retired to rest. If Emily had admired the magnificence of the saloon, she was
not less surprised, on observing the half-furnished and forlorn appearance of
the apartments she passed in the way to her chamber, whither she went through
long suites of noble rooms, that seemed, from their desolate aspect, to have
been unoccupied for many years. On the walls of some were the faded remains of
tapestry; from others, painted in fresco, the damps had almost withdrawn both
colours and design. At length she reached her own chamber, spacious, desolate,
and lofty, like the rest, with high lattices that opened towards the Adriatic.
It brought gloomy images to her mind, but the view of the Adriatic soon gave
her others more airy, among which was that of the sea-nymph, whose delights she
had before amused herself with picturing; and, anxious to escape from serious
reflections, she now endeavoured to throw her fanciful ideas into a train, and
concluded the hour with composing the following lines:

THE SEA-NYMPH

Down, down a thousand fathom deep,
Among the sounding seas I go;
Play round the foot of ev’ry steep
Whose cliffs above the ocean grow.

There, within their secret cares,
I hear the mighty rivers roar;
And guide their streams through Neptune’s waves
To bless the green earth’s inmost shore:

And bid the freshen’d waters glide,
For fern-crown’d nymphs of lake, or brook,
Through winding woods and pastures wide,
And many a wild, romantic nook.

For this the nymphs, at fall of eave,
Oft dance upon the flow’ry banks,
And sing my name, and garlands weave
To bear beneath the wave their thanks.

In coral bow’rs I love to lie,
And hear the surges roll above,
And through the waters view on high
The proud ships sail, and gay clouds move.

And oft at midnight’s stillest hour,
When summer seas the vessel lave,
I love to prove my charmful pow’r
While floating on the moonlight wave.

And when deep sleep the crew has bound,
And the sad lover musing leans
O’er the ship’s side, I breathe around
Such strains as speak no mortal means!

O’er the dim waves his searching eye
Sees but the vessel’s lengthen’d shade;
Above—the moon and azure sky;
Entranc’d he hears, and half afraid!

Sometimes, a single note I swell,
That, softly sweet, at distance dies;
Then wake the magic of my shell,
And choral voices round me rise!

The trembling youth, charm’d by my strain,
Calls up the crew, who, silent, bend
O’er the high deck, but list in vain;
My song is hush’d, my wonders end!

Within the mountain’s woody bay,
Where the tall bark at anchor rides,
At twilight hour, with tritons gay,
I dance upon the lapsing tides:

And with my sister-nymphs I sport,
Till the broad sun looks o’er the floods;
Then, swift we seek our crystal court,
Deep in the wave, ’mid Neptune’s woods.

In cool arcades and glassy halls
We pass the sultry hours of noon,
Beyond wherever sunbeam falls,
Weaving sea-flowers in gay festoon.

The while we chant our ditties sweet
To some soft shell that warbles near;
Join’d by the murmuring currents, fleet,
That glide along our halls so clear.

There, the pale pearl and sapphire blue,
And ruby red, and em’rald green,
Dart from the domes a changing hue,
And sparry columns deck the scene.

When the dark storm scowls o’er the deep,
And long, long peals of thunder sound,
On some high cliff my watch I keep
O’er all the restless seas around:

Till on the ridgy wave afar
Comes the lone vessel, labouring slow,
Spreading the white foam in the air,
With sail and top-mast bending low.

Then, plunge I ’mid the ocean’s roar,
My way by quiv’ring lightnings shown,
To guide the bark to peaceful shore,
And hush the sailor’s fearful groan.

And if too late I reach its side
To save it from the ’whelming surge,
I call my dolphins o’er the tide,
To bear the crew where isles emerge.

Their mournful spirits soon I cheer,
While round the desert coast I go,
With warbled songs they faintly hear,
Oft as the stormy gust sinks low.

My music leads to lofty groves,
That wild upon the sea-bank wave;
Where sweet fruits bloom, and fresh spring roves,
And closing boughs the tempest brave.

Then, from the air spirits obey
My potent voice they love so well,
And, on the clouds, paint visions gay,
While strains more sweet at distance swell.

And thus the lonely hours I cheat,
Soothing the ship-wreck’d sailor’s heart,
Till from the waves the storms retreat,
And o’er the east the day-beams dart.

Neptune for this oft binds me fast
To rocks below, with coral chain,
Till all the tempest’s over-past,
And drowning seamen cry in vain.

Whoe’er ye are that love my lay,
Come, when red sunset tints the wave,
To the still sands, where fairies play;
There, in cool seas, I love to lave.

CHAPTER III

He is a great observer, and he looks
Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays,
………………..he hears no music;
Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,
As if he mock’d himself, and scorn’d his spirit
that could be mov’d to smile at anything.
Such men as he be never at heart’s ease,
While they behold a greater than themselves.
                    JULIUS CÆSAR

Montoni and his companion did not return home, till many hours after the dawn
had blushed upon the Adriatic. The airy groups, which had danced all night
along the colonnade of St. Mark, dispersed before the morning, like so many
spirits. Montoni had been otherwise engaged; his soul was little susceptible of
light pleasures. He delighted in the energies of the passions; the difficulties
and tempests of life, which wreck the happiness of others, roused and
strengthened all the powers of his mind, and afforded him the highest
enjoyments, of which his nature was capable. Without some object of strong
interest, life was to him little more than a sleep; and, when pursuits of real
interest failed, he substituted artificial ones, till habit changed their
nature, and they ceased to be unreal. Of this kind was the habit of gaming,
which he had adopted, first, for the purpose of relieving him from the languor
of inaction, but had since pursued with the ardour of passion. In this
occupation he had passed the night with Cavigni and a party of young men, who
had more money than rank, and more vice than either. Montoni despised the
greater part of these for the inferiority of their talents, rather than for
their vicious inclinations, and associated with them only to make them the
instruments of his purposes. Among these, however, were some of superior
abilities, and a few whom Montoni admitted to his intimacy, but even towards
these he still preserved a decisive and haughty air, which, while it imposed
submission on weak and timid minds, roused the fierce hatred of strong ones. He
had, of course, many and bitter enemies; but the rancour of their hatred proved
the degree of his power; and, as power was his chief aim, he gloried more in
such hatred, than it was possible he could in being esteemed. A feeling so
tempered as that of esteem, he despised, and would have despised himself also
had he thought himself capable of being flattered by it.

Among the few whom he distinguished, were the Signors Bertolini, Orsino, and
Verezzi. The first was a man of gay temper, strong passions, dissipated, and of
unbounded extravagance, but generous, brave, and unsuspicious. Orsino was
reserved, and haughty; loving power more than ostentation; of a cruel and
suspicious temper; quick to feel an injury, and relentless in avenging it;
cunning and unsearchable in contrivance, patient and indefatigable in the
execution of his schemes. He had a perfect command of feature and of his
passions, of which he had scarcely any, but pride, revenge and avarice; and, in
the gratification of these, few considerations had power to restrain him, few
obstacles to withstand the depth of his stratagems. This man was the chief
favourite of Montoni. Verezzi was a man of some talent, of fiery imagination,
and the slave of alternate passions. He was gay, voluptuous, and daring; yet
had neither perseverance nor true courage, and was meanly selfish in all his
aims. Quick to form schemes, and sanguine in his hope of success, he was the
first to undertake, and to abandon, not only his own plans, but those adopted
from other persons. Proud and impetuous, he revolted against all subordination;
yet those who were acquainted with his character, and watched the turn of his
passions, could lead him like a child.

Such were the friends whom Montoni introduced to his family and his table, on
the day after his arrival at Venice. There were also of the party a Venetian
nobleman, Count Morano, and a Signora Livona, whom Montoni had introduced to
his wife, as a lady of distinguished merit, and who, having called in the
morning to welcome her to Venice, had been requested to be of the dinner party.

Madame Montoni received with a very ill grace, the compliments of the Signors.
She disliked them, because they were the friends of her husband; hated them,
because she believed they had contributed to detain him abroad till so late an
hour of the preceding morning; and envied them, since, conscious of her own
want of influence, she was convinced, that he preferred their society to her
own. The rank of Count Morano procured him that distinction which she refused
to the rest of the company. The haughty sullenness of her countenance and
manner, and the ostentatious extravagance of her dress, for she had not yet
adopted the Venetian habit, were strikingly contrasted by the beauty, modesty,
sweetness and simplicity of Emily, who observed, with more attention than
pleasure, the party around her. The beauty and fascinating manners of Signora
Livona, however, won her involuntary regard; while the sweetness of her accents
and her air of gentle kindness awakened with Emily those pleasing affections,
which so long had slumbered.

In the cool of the evening the party embarked in Montoni’s gondola, and
rowed out upon the sea. The red glow of sunset still touched the waves, and
lingered in the west, where the melancholy gleam seemed slowly expiring, while
the dark blue of the upper æther began to twinkle with stars. Emily sat, given
up to pensive and sweet emotions. The smoothness of the water, over which she
glided, its reflected images—a new heaven and trembling stars below the
waves, with shadowy outlines of towers and porticos, conspired with the
stillness of the hour, interrupted only by the passing wave, or the notes of
distant music, to raise those emotions to enthusiasm. As she listened to the
measured sound of the oars, and to the remote warblings that came in the
breeze, her softened mind returned to the memory of St. Aubert and to
Valancourt, and tears stole to her eyes. The rays of the moon, strengthening as
the shadows deepened, soon after threw a silvery gleam upon her countenance,
which was partly shaded by a thin black veil, and touched it with inimitable
softness. Hers was the contour of a Madona, with the sensibility of a
Magdalen; and the pensive uplifted eye, with the tear that glittered on her
cheek, confirmed the expression of the character.

The last strain of distant music now died in air, for the gondola was far upon
the waves, and the party determined to have music of their own. The Count
Morano, who sat next to Emily, and who had been observing her for some time in
silence, snatched up a lute, and struck the chords with the finger of harmony
herself, while his voice, a fine tenor, accompanied them in a rondeau full of
tender sadness. To him, indeed, might have been applied that beautiful
exhortation of an English poet, had it then existed:

Strike up, my master,
But touch the strings with a religious softness!
Teach sounds to languish through the night’s dull ear
Till Melancholy starts from off her couch,
And Carelessness grows concert to attention!

With such powers of expression the Count sung the following

RONDEAU

Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps
Upon the ocean’s trembling tide;
Soft as the air, that lightly sweeps
Yon sad, that swells in stately pride:

Soft as the surge’s stealing note,
That dies along the distant shores,
Or warbled strain, that sinks remote—
So soft the sigh my bosom pours!

True as the wave to Cynthia’s ray,
True as the vessel to the breeze,
True as the soul to music’s sway,
Or music to Venetian seas:

Soft as yon silver beams, that sleep
Upon the ocean’s trembling breast;
So soft, so true, fond Love shall weep,
So soft, so true, with thee shall rest.

The cadence with which he returned from the last stanza to a repetition of the
first; the fine modulation in which his voice stole upon the first line, and
the pathetic energy with which it pronounced the last, were such as only
exquisite taste could give. When he had concluded, he gave the lute with a sigh
to Emily, who, to avoid any appearance of affectation, immediately began to
play. She sung a melancholy little air, one of the popular songs of her native
province, with a simplicity and pathos that made it enchanting. But its
well-known melody brought so forcibly to her fancy the scenes and the persons,
among which she had often heard it, that her spirits were overcome, her voice
trembled and ceased—and the strings of the lute were struck with a
disordered hand; till, ashamed of the emotion she had betrayed, she suddenly
passed on to a song so gay and airy, that the steps of the dance seemed almost
to echo to the notes. Bravissimo! burst instantly from the lips of her
delighted auditors, and she was compelled to repeat the air. Among the
compliments that followed, those of the Count were not the least audible, and
they had not concluded, when Emily gave the instrument to Signora Livona, whose
voice accompanied it with true Italian taste.

Afterwards, the Count, Emily, Cavigni, and the Signora, sung
canzonettes, accompanied by a couple of lutes and a few other
instruments. Sometimes the instruments suddenly ceased, and the voices dropped
from the full swell of harmony into a low chant; then, after a deep pause, they
rose by degrees, the instruments one by one striking up, till the loud and full
chorus soared again to heaven!

Meanwhile, Montoni, who was weary of this harmony, was considering how he might
disengage himself from his party, or withdraw with such of it as would be
willing to play, to a Casino. In a pause of the music, he proposed returning to
shore, a proposal which Orsino eagerly seconded, but which the Count and the
other gentlemen as warmly opposed.

Montoni still meditated how he might excuse himself from longer attendance upon
the Count, for to him only he thought excuse necessary, and how he might get to
land, till the gondolieri of an empty boat, returning to Venice, hailed his
people. Without troubling himself longer about an excuse, he seized this
opportunity of going thither, and, committing the ladies to the care of his
friends, departed with Orsino, while Emily, for the first time, saw him go with
regret; for she considered his presence a protection, though she knew not what
she should fear. He landed at St. Mark’s, and, hurrying to a Casino, was
soon lost amidst a crowd of gamesters.

Meanwhile, the Count having secretly dispatched a servant in Montoni’s
boat, for his own gondola and musicians, Emily heard, without knowing his
project, the gay song of gondolieri approaching, as they sat on the stern of
the boat, and saw the tremulous gleam of the moonlight wave, which their oars
disturbed. Presently she heard the sound of instruments, and then a full
symphony swelled on the air, and, the boats meeting, the gondolieri hailed each
other. The Count then explaining himself, the party removed into his gondola,
which was embellished with all that taste could bestow.

While they partook of a collation of fruits and ice, the whole band, following
at a distance in the other boat, played the most sweet and enchanting strains,
and the Count, who had again seated himself by Emily, paid her unremitted
attention, and sometimes, in a low but impassioned voice, uttered compliments
which she could not misunderstand. To avoid them she conversed with Signora
Livona, and her manner to the Count assumed a mild reserve, which, though
dignified, was too gentle to repress his assiduities: he could see, hear, speak
to no person, but Emily while Cavigni observed him now and then, with a look of
displeasure, and Emily, with one of uneasiness. She now wished for nothing so
much as to return to Venice, but it was near midnight before the gondolas
approached St. Mark’s Place, where the voice of gaiety and song was loud.
The busy hum of mingling sounds was heard at a considerable distance on the
water, and, had not a bright moonlight discovered the city, with its terraces
and towers, a stranger would almost have credited the fabled wonders of
Neptune’s court, and believed, that the tumult arose from beneath the
waves.

They landed at St. Mark’s, where the gaiety of the colonnades and the
beauty of the night, made Madame Montoni willingly submit to the Count’s
solicitations to join the promenade, and afterwards to take a supper with the
rest of the party, at his Casino. If anything could have dissipated
Emily’s uneasiness, it would have been the grandeur, gaiety, and novelty
of the surrounding scene, adorned with Palladio’s palaces, and busy with
parties of masqueraders.

At length they withdrew to the Casino, which was fitted up with infinite taste,
and where a splendid banquet was prepared; but here Emily’s reserve made
the Count perceive, that it was necessary for his interest to win the favour of
Madame Montoni, which, from the condescension she had already shown to him,
appeared to be an achievement of no great difficulty. He transferred,
therefore, part of his attention from Emily to her aunt, who felt too much
flattered by the distinction even to disguise her emotion; and before the party
broke up, he had entirely engaged the esteem of Madame Montoni. Whenever he
addressed her, her ungracious countenance relaxed into smiles, and to whatever
he proposed she assented. He invited her, with the rest of the party, to take
coffee, in his box at the opera, on the following evening, and Emily heard the
invitation accepted, with strong anxiety, concerning the means of excusing
herself from attending Madame Montoni thither.

It was very late before their gondola was ordered, and Emily’s surprise
was extreme, when, on quitting the Casino, she beheld the broad sun rising out
of the Adriatic, while St. Mark’s Place was yet crowded with company.
Sleep had long weighed heavily on her eyes, but now the fresh sea-breeze
revived her, and she would have quitted the scene with regret, had not the
Count been present, performing the duty, which he had imposed upon himself, of
escorting them home. There they heard that Montoni was not yet returned; and
his wife, retiring in displeasure to her apartment, at length released Emily
from the fatigue of further attendance.

Montoni came home late in the morning, in a very ill humour, having lost
considerably at play, and, before he withdrew to rest, had a private conference
with Cavigni, whose manner, on the following day, seemed to tell, that the
subject of it had not been pleasing to him.

In the evening, Madame Montoni, who, during the day, had observed a sullen
silence towards her husband, received visits from some Venetian ladies, with
whose sweet manners Emily was particularly charmed. They had an air of ease and
kindness towards the strangers, as if they had been their familiar friends for
years; and their conversation was by turns tender, sentimental and gay. Madame,
though she had no taste for such conversation, and whose coarseness and
selfishness sometimes exhibited a ludicrous contrast to their excessive
refinement, could not remain wholly insensible to the captivations of their
manner.

In a pause of conversation, a lady who was called Signora Herminia took up a
lute, and began to play and sing, with as much easy gaiety, as if she had been
alone. Her voice was uncommonly rich in tone, and various in expression; yet
she appeared to be entirely unconscious of its powers, and meant nothing less
than to display them. She sung from the gaiety of her heart, as she sat with
her veil half thrown back, holding gracefully the lute, under the spreading
foliage and flowers of some plants, that rose from baskets, and interlaced one
of the lattices of the saloon. Emily, retiring a little from the company,
sketched her figure, with the miniature scenery around her, and drew a very
interesting picture, which, though it would not, perhaps, have borne criticism,
had spirit and taste enough to awaken both the fancy and the heart. When she
had finished it, she presented it to the beautiful original, who was delighted
with the offering, as well as the sentiment it conveyed, and assured Emily,
with a smile of captivating sweetness, that she should preserve it as a pledge
of her friendship.

In the evening Cavigni joined the ladies, but Montoni had other engagements;
and they embarked in the gondola for St. Mark’s, where the same gay
company seemed to flutter as on the preceding night. The cool breeze, the
glassy sea, the gentle sound of its waves, and the sweeter murmur of distant
music; the lofty porticos and arcades, and the happy groups that sauntered
beneath them; these, with every feature and circumstance of the scene, united
to charm Emily, no longer teased by the officious attentions of Count Morano.
But, as she looked upon the moonlight sea, undulating along the walls of St.
Mark, and, lingering for a moment over those walls, caught the sweet and
melancholy song of some gondolier as he sat in his boat below, waiting for his
master, her softened mind returned to the memory of her home, of her friends,
and of all that was dear in her native country.

After walking some time, they sat down at the door of a Casino, and, while
Cavigni was accommodating them with coffee and ice, were joined by Count
Morano. He sought Emily with a look of impatient delight, who, remembering all
the attention he had shown her on the preceding evening, was compelled, as
before, to shrink from his assiduities into a timid reserve, except when she
conversed with Signora Herminia and the other ladies of her party.

It was near midnight before they withdrew to the opera, where Emily was not so
charmed but that, when she remembered the scene she had just quitted, she felt
how infinitely inferior all the splendour of art is to the sublimity of nature.
Her heart was not now affected, tears of admiration did not start to her eyes,
as when she viewed the vast expanse of ocean, the grandeur of the heavens, and
listened to the rolling waters, and to the faint music that, at intervals,
mingled with their roar. Remembering these, the scene before her faded into
insignificance.

Of the evening, which passed on without any particular incident, she wished the
conclusion, that she might escape from the attentions of the Count; and, as
opposite qualities frequently attract each other in our thoughts, thus Emily,
when she looked on Count Morano, remembered Valancourt, and a sigh sometimes
followed the recollection.

Several weeks passed in the course of customary visits, during which nothing
remarkable occurred. Emily was amused by the manners and scenes that surrounded
her, so different from those of France, but where Count Morano, too frequently
for her comfort, contrived to introduce himself. His manner, figure and
accomplishments, which were generally admired, Emily would, perhaps, have
admired also, had her heart been disengaged from Valancourt, and had the Count
forborne to persecute her with officious attentions, during which she observed
some traits in his character, that prejudiced her against whatever might
otherwise be good in it.

Soon after his arrival at Venice, Montoni received a packet from M. Quesnel, in
which the latter mentioned the death of his wife’s uncle, at his villa on
the Brenta; and that, in consequence of this event, he should hasten to take
possession of that estate and of other effects bequeathed to him. This uncle
was the brother of Madame Quesnel’s late mother; Montoni was related to
her by the father’s side, and though he could have had neither claim nor
expectation concerning these possessions, he could scarcely conceal the envy
which M. Quesnel’s letter excited.

Emily had observed with concern, that, since they left France, Montoni had not
even affected kindness towards her aunt, and that, after treating her, at
first, with neglect, he now met her with uniform ill-humour and reserve. She
had never supposed, that her aunt’s foibles could have escaped the
discernment of Montoni, or that her mind or figure were of a kind to deserve
his attention. Her surprise, therefore, at this match, had been extreme; but
since he had made the choice, she did not suspect that he would so openly have
discovered his contempt of it. But Montoni, who had been allured by the seeming
wealth of Madame Cheron, was now severely disappointed by her comparative
poverty, and highly exasperated by the deceit she had employed to conceal it,
till concealment was no longer necessary. He had been deceived in an affair,
wherein he meant to be the deceiver; out-witted by the superior cunning of a
woman, whose understanding he despised, and to whom he had sacrificed his pride
and his liberty, without saving himself from the ruin, which had impended over
his head. Madame Montoni had contrived to have the greatest part of what she
really did possess, settled upon herself: what remained, though it was totally
inadequate both to her husband’s expectations, and to his necessities, he
had converted into money, and brought with him to Venice, that he might a
little longer delude society, and make a last effort to regain the fortunes he
had lost.

The hints which had been thrown out to Valancourt, concerning Montoni’s
character and condition, were too true; but it was now left to time and
occasion, to unfold the circumstances, both of what had, and of what had not
been hinted, and to time and occasion we commit them.

Madame Montoni was not of a nature to bear injuries with meekness, or to resent
them with dignity: her exasperated pride displayed itself in all the violence
and acrimony of a little, or at least of an ill-regulated mind. She would not
acknowledge, even to herself, that she had in any degree provoked contempt by
her duplicity, but weakly persisted in believing, that she alone was to be
pitied, and Montoni alone to be censured; for, as her mind had naturally little
perception of moral obligation, she seldom understood its force but when it
happened to be violated towards herself: her vanity had already been severely
shocked by a discovery of Montoni’s contempt; it remained to be farther
reproved by a discovery of his circumstances. His mansion at Venice, though its
furniture discovered a part of the truth to unprejudiced persons, told nothing
to those who were blinded by a resolution to believe whatever they wished.
Madame Montoni still thought herself little less than a princess, possessing a
palace at Venice, and a castle among the Apennines. To the castle di Udolpho,
indeed, Montoni sometimes talked of going for a few weeks to examine into its
condition, and to receive some rents; for it appeared that he had not been
there for two years, and that, during this period, it had been inhabited only
by an old servant, whom he called his steward.

Emily listened to the mention of this journey with pleasure, for she not only
expected from it new ideas, but a release from the persevering assiduities of
Count Morano. In the country, too, she would have leisure to think of
Valancourt, and to indulge the melancholy, which his image, and a recollection
of the scenes of La Vallée, always blessed with the memory of her parents,
awakened. The ideal scenes were dearer, and more soothing to her heart, than
all the splendour of gay assemblies; they were a kind of talisman that expelled
the poison of temporary evils, and supported her hopes of happy days: they
appeared like a beautiful landscape, lighted up by a gleam of sunshine, and
seen through a perspective of dark and rugged rocks.

But Count Morano did not long confine himself to silent assiduities; he
declared his passion to Emily, and made proposals to Montoni, who encouraged,
though Emily rejected, him: with Montoni for his friend, and an abundance of
vanity to delude him, he did not despair of success. Emily was astonished and
highly disgusted at his perseverance, after she had explained her sentiments
with a frankness that would not allow him to misunderstand them.

He now passed the greater part of his time at Montoni’s, dining there
almost daily, and attending Madame and Emily wherever they went; and all this,
notwithstanding the uniform reserve of Emily, whose aunt seemed as anxious as
Montoni to promote this marriage; and would never dispense with her attendance
at any assembly where the Count proposed to be present.

Montoni now said nothing of his intended journey, of which Emily waited
impatiently to hear; and he was seldom at home but when the Count, or Signor
Orsino, was there, for between himself and Cavigni a coolness seemed to
subsist, though the latter remained in his house. With Orsino, Montoni was
frequently closeted for hours together, and, whatever might be the business,
upon which they consulted, it appeared to be of consequence, since Montoni
often sacrificed to it his favourite passion for play, and remained at home the
whole night. There was somewhat of privacy, too, in the manner of
Orsino’s visits, which had never before occurred, and which excited not
only surprise, but some degree of alarm in Emily’s mind, who had
unwillingly discovered much of his character when he had most endeavoured to
disguise it. After these visits, Montoni was often more thoughtful than usual;
sometimes the deep workings of his mind entirely abstracted him from
surrounding objects, and threw a gloom over his visage that rendered it
terrible; at others, his eyes seemed almost to flash fire, and all the energies
of his soul appeared to be roused for some great enterprise. Emily observed
these written characters of his thoughts with deep interest, and not without
some degree of awe, when she considered that she was entirely in his power; but
forbore even to hint her fears, or her observations, to Madame Montoni, who
discerned nothing in her husband, at these times, but his usual sternness.

A second letter from M. Quesnel announced the arrival of himself and his lady
at the Villa Miarenti; stated several circumstances of his good fortune,
respecting the affair that had brought him into Italy; and concluded with an
earnest request to see Montoni, his wife and niece, at his new estate.

Emily received, about the same period, a much more interesting letter, and
which soothed for a while every anxiety of her heart. Valancourt, hoping she
might be still at Venice, had trusted a letter to the ordinary post, that told
her of his health, and of his unceasing and anxious affection. He had lingered
at Thoulouse for some time after her departure, that he might indulge the
melancholy pleasure of wandering through the scenes where he had been
accustomed to behold her, and had thence gone to his brother’s château,
which was in the neighbourhood of La Vallée. Having mentioned this, he added,
“If the duty of attending my regiment did not require my departure, I
know not when I should have resolution enough to quit the neighbourhood of a
place which is endeared by the remembrance of you. The vicinity to La Vallée
has alone detained me thus long at Estuvière: I frequently ride thither early
in the morning, that I may wander, at leisure, through the day, among scenes,
which were once your home, where I have been accustomed to see you, and to hear
you converse. I have renewed my acquaintance with the good old Theresa, who
rejoiced to see me, that she might talk of you: I need not say how much this
circumstance attached me to her, or how eagerly I listened to her upon her
favourite subject. You will guess the motive that first induced me to make
myself known to Theresa: it was, indeed, no other than that of gaining
admittance into the château and gardens, which my Emily had so lately
inhabited: here, then, I wander, and meet your image under every shade: but
chiefly I love to sit beneath the spreading branches of your favourite plane,
where once, Emily, we sat together; where I first ventured to tell you, that I
loved. O Emily! the remembrance of those moments overcomes me—I sit lost
in reverie—I endeavour to see you dimly through my tears, in all the
heaven of peace and innocence, such as you then appeared to me; to hear again
the accents of that voice, which then thrilled my heart with tenderness and
hope. I lean on the wall of the terrace, where we together watched the rapid
current of the Garonne below, while I described the wild scenery about its
source, but thought only of you. O Emily! are these moments passed for
ever—will they never more return?”

In another part of his letter he wrote thus. “You see my letter is dated
on many different days, and, if you look back to the first, you will perceive,
that I began to write soon after your departure from France. To write was,
indeed, the only employment that withdrew me from my own melancholy, and
rendered your absence supportable, or rather, it seemed to destroy absence;
for, when I was conversing with you on paper, and telling you every sentiment
and affection of my heart, you almost appeared to be present. This employment
has been from time to time my chief consolation, and I have deferred sending
off my packet, merely for the comfort of prolonging it, though it was certain,
that what I had written, was written to no purpose till you received it.
Whenever my mind has been more than usually depressed I have come to pour forth
its sorrows to you, and have always found consolation; and, when any little
occurrence has interested my heart, and given a gleam of joy to my spirits, I
have hastened to communicate it to you, and have received reflected
satisfaction. Thus, my letter is a kind of picture of my life and of my
thoughts for the last month, and thus, though it has been deeply interesting to
me, while I wrote it, and I dare hope will, for the same reason, be not
indifferent to you, yet to other readers it would seem to abound only in
frivolities. Thus it is always, when we attempt to describe the finer movements
of the heart, for they are too fine to be discerned, they can only be
experienced, and are therefore passed over by the indifferent observer, while
the interested one feels, that all description is imperfect and unnecessary,
except as it may prove the sincerity of the writer, and sooth his own
sufferings. You will pardon all this egotism—for I am a lover.”

“I have just heard of a circumstance, which entirely destroys all my
fairy paradise of ideal delight, and which will reconcile me to the necessity
of returning to my regiment, for I must no longer wander beneath the beloved
shades, where I have been accustomed to meet you in thought.—La Vallée is
let! I have reason to believe this is without your knowledge, from what Theresa
told me this morning, and, therefore, I mention the circumstance. She shed
tears, while she related, that she was going to leave the service of her dear
mistress, and the château where she had lived so many happy years; and all
this, added she, without even a letter from Mademoiselle to soften the news;
but it is all Mons. Quesnel’s doings, and I dare say she does not even
know what is going forward.”

“Theresa added, That she had received a letter from him, informing her
the château was let, and that, as her services would no longer be required, she
must quit the place, on that day week, when the new tenant would arrive.”

“Theresa had been surprised by a visit from M. Quesnel, some time before
the receipt of this letter, who was accompanied by a stranger that viewed the
premises with much curiosity.”

Towards the conclusion of his letter, which is dated a week after this
sentence, Valancourt adds, “I have received a summons from my regiment,
and I join it without regret, since I am shut out from the scenes that are so
interesting to my heart. I rode to La Vallée this morning, and heard that the
new tenant was arrived, and that Theresa was gone. I should not treat the
subject thus familiarly if I did not believe you to be uninformed of this
disposal of your house; for your satisfaction I have endeavoured to learn
something of the character and fortune of your tenant, but without success. He
is a gentleman, they say, and this is all I can hear. The place, as I wandered
round the boundaries, appeared more melancholy to my imagination, than I had
ever seen it. I wished earnestly to have got admittance, that I might have
taken another leave of your favourite plane-tree, and thought of you once more
beneath its shade: but I forbore to tempt the curiosity of strangers: the
fishing-house in the woods, however, was still open to me; thither I went, and
passed an hour, which I cannot even look back upon without emotion. O Emily!
surely we are not separated for ever—surely we shall live for each
other!”

This letter brought many tears to Emily’s eyes; tears of tenderness and
satisfaction on learning that Valancourt was well, and that time and absence
had in no degree effaced her image from his heart. There were passages in this
letter which particularly affected her, such as those describing his visits to
La Vallée, and the sentiments of delicate affection that its scenes had
awakened. It was a considerable time before her mind was sufficiently
abstracted from Valancourt to feel the force of his intelligence concerning La
Vallée. That Mons. Quesnel should let it, without even consulting her on the
measure, both surprised and shocked her, particularly as it proved the absolute
authority he thought himself entitled to exercise in her affairs. It is true,
he had proposed, before she left France, that the château should be let, during
her absence, and to the economical prudence of this she had nothing to object;
but the committing what had been her father’s villa to the power and
caprice of strangers, and the depriving herself of a sure home, should any
unhappy circumstances make her look back to her home as an asylum, were
considerations that made her, even then, strongly oppose the measure. Her
father, too, in his last hour, had received from her a solemn promise never to
dispose of La Vallée; and this she considered as in some degree violated if she
suffered the place to be let. But it was now evident with how little respect M.
Quesnel had regarded these objections, and how insignificant he considered
every obstacle to pecuniary advantage. It appeared, also, that he had not even
condescended to inform Montoni of the step he had taken, since no motive was
evident for Montoni’s concealing the circumstance from her, if it had
been made known to him: this both displeased and surprised her; but the chief
subjects of her uneasiness were—the temporary disposal of La Vallée, and
the dismission of her father’s old and faithful
servant.—“Poor Theresa,” said Emily, “thou hadst not
saved much in thy servitude, for thou wast always tender towards the poor, and
believd’st thou shouldst die in the family, where thy best years had been
spent. Poor Theresa!—now thou art turned out in thy old age to seek thy
bread!”

Emily wept bitterly as these thoughts passed over her mind, and she determined
to consider what could be done for Theresa, and to talk very explicitly to M.
Quesnel on the subject; but she much feared that his cold heart could feel only
for itself. She determined also to enquire whether he had made any mention of
her affairs, in his letter to Montoni, who soon gave her the opportunity she
sought, by desiring that she would attend him in his study. She had little
doubt, that the interview was intended for the purpose of communicating to her
a part of M. Quesnel’s letter concerning the transactions at La Vallée,
and she obeyed him immediately. Montoni was alone.

“I have just been writing to Mons. Quesnel,” said he when Emily
appeared, “in reply to the letter I received from him a few days ago, and
I wished to talk to you upon a subject that occupied part of it.”

“I also wished to speak with you on this topic, sir,” said Emily.

“It is a subject of some interest to you, undoubtedly,” rejoined
Montoni, “and I think you must see it in the light that I do; indeed it
will not bear any other. I trust you will agree with me, that any objection
founded on sentiment, as they call it, ought to yield to circumstances of solid
advantage.”

“Granting this, sir,” replied Emily, modestly, “those of
humanity ought surely to be attended to. But I fear it is now too late to
deliberate upon this plan, and I must regret, that it is no longer in my power
to reject it.”

“It is too late,” said Montoni; “but since it is so, I am
pleased to observe, that you submit to reason and necessity without indulging
useless complaint. I applaud this conduct exceedingly, the more, perhaps, since
it discovers a strength of mind seldom observable in your sex. When you are
older you will look back with gratitude to the friends who assisted in rescuing
you from the romantic illusions of sentiment, and will perceive, that they are
only the snares of childhood, and should be vanquished the moment you escape
from the nursery. I have not closed my letter, and you may add a few lines to
inform your uncle of your acquiescence. You will soon see him, for it is my
intention to take you, with Madame Montoni, in a few days to Miarenti, and you
can then talk over the affair.”

Emily wrote on the opposite page of the paper as follows:

“It is now useless, sir, for me to remonstrate upon the circumstances of
which Signor Montoni informs me that he has written. I could have wished, at
least, that the affair had been concluded with less precipitation, that I might
have taught myself to subdue some prejudices, as the Signor calls them, which
still linger in my heart. As it is, I submit. In point of prudence nothing
certainly can be objected; but, though I submit, I have yet much to say on some
other points of the subject, when I shall have the honour of seeing you. In the
meantime I entreat you will take care of Theresa, for the sake of,
            “Sir,
            “Your affectionate niece,
            “EMILY ST. AUBERT.”

Montoni smiled satirically at what Emily had written, but did not object to it,
and she withdrew to her own apartment, where she sat down to begin a letter to
Valancourt, in which she related the particulars of her journey, and her
arrival at Venice, described some of the most striking scenes in the passage
over the Alps; her emotions on her first view of Italy; the manners and
characters of the people around her, and some few circumstances of
Montoni’s conduct. But she avoided even naming Count Morano, much more
the declaration he had made, since she well knew how tremblingly alive to fear
is real love, how jealously watchful of every circumstance that may affect its
interest; and she scrupulously avoided to give Valancourt even the slightest
reason for believing he had a rival.

On the following day Count Morano dined again at Montoni’s. He was in an
uncommon flow of spirits, and Emily thought there was somewhat of exultation in
his manner of addressing her, which she had never observed before. She
endeavoured to repress this by more than her usual reserve, but the cold
civility of her air now seemed rather to encourage than to depress him. He
appeared watchful of an opportunity of speaking with her alone, and more than
once solicited this; but Emily always replied, that she could hear nothing from
him which he would be unwilling to repeat before the whole company.

In the evening, Madame Montoni and her party went out upon the sea, and as the
Count led Emily to his zendaletto, he carried her hand to his lips, and
thanked her for the condescension she had shown him. Emily, in extreme surprise
and displeasure, hastily withdrew her hand, and concluded that he had spoken
ironically; but, on reaching the steps of the terrace, and observing by the
livery, that it was the Count’s zendaletto which waited below,
while the rest of the party, having arranged themselves in the gondolas, were
moving on, she determined not to permit a separate conversation, and, wishing
him a good evening, returned to the portico. The Count followed to expostulate
and entreat, and Montoni, who then came out, rendered solicitation unnecessary,
for, without condescending to speak, he took her hand, and led her to the
zendaletto. Emily was not silent; she entreated Montoni, in a low voice,
to consider the impropriety of these circumstances, and that he would spare her
the mortification of submitting to them; he, however, was inflexible.

“This caprice is intolerable,” said he, “and shall not be
indulged: there is no impropriety in the case.”

At this moment, Emily’s dislike of Count Morano rose to abhorrence. That
he should, with undaunted assurance, thus pursue her, notwithstanding all she
had expressed on the subject of his addresses, and think, as it was evident he
did, that her opinion of him was of no consequence, so long as his pretensions
were sanctioned by Montoni, added indignation to the disgust which she had felt
towards him. She was somewhat relieved by observing that Montoni was to be of
the party, who seated himself on one side of her, while Morano placed himself
on the other. There was a pause for some moments as the gondolieri prepared
their oars, and Emily trembled from apprehension of the discourse that might
follow this silence. At length she collected courage to break it herself, in
the hope of preventing fine speeches from Morano, and reproof from Montoni. To
some trivial remark which she made, the latter returned a short and disobliging
reply; but Morano immediately followed with a general observation, which he
contrived to end with a particular compliment, and, though Emily passed it
without even the notice of a smile, he was not discouraged.

“I have been impatient,” said he, addressing Emily, “to
express my gratitude; to thank you for your goodness; but I must also thank
Signor Montoni, who has allowed me this opportunity of doing so.”

Emily regarded the Count with a look of mingled astonishment and displeasure.

“Why,” continued he, “should you wish to diminish the delight
of this moment by that air of cruel reserve?—Why seek to throw me again
into the perplexities of doubt, by teaching your eyes to contradict the
kindness of your late declaration? You cannot doubt the sincerity, the ardour
of my passion; it is therefore unnecessary, charming Emily! surely unnecessary,
any longer to attempt a disguise of your sentiments.”

“If I ever had disguised them, sir,” said Emily, with recollected
spirit, “it would certainly be unnecessary any longer to do so. I had
hoped, sir, that you would have spared me any farther necessity of alluding to
them; but, since you do not grant this, hear me declare, and for the last time,
that your perseverance has deprived you even of the esteem, which I was
inclined to believe you merited.”

“Astonishing!” exclaimed Montoni: “this is beyond even my
expectation, though I have hitherto done justice to the caprice of the sex! But
you will observe, Mademoiselle Emily, that I am no lover, though Count Morano
is, and that I will not be made the amusement of your capricious moments. Here
is the offer of an alliance, which would do honour to any family; yours, you
will recollect, is not noble; you long resisted my remonstrances, but my honour
is now engaged, and it shall not be trifled with.—You shall adhere to the
declaration, which you have made me an agent to convey to the Count.”

“I must certainly mistake you, sir,” said Emily; “my answers
on the subject have been uniform; it is unworthy of you to accuse me of
caprice. If you have condescended to be my agent, it is an honour I did not
solicit. I myself have constantly assured Count Morano, and you also, sir, that
I never can accept the honour he offers me, and I now repeat the
declaration.”

The Count looked with an air of surprise and enquiry at Montoni, whose
countenance also was marked with surprise, but it was surprise mingled with
indignation.

“Here is confidence, as well as caprice!” said the latter.
“Will you deny your own words, Madam?”

“Such a question is unworthy of an answer, sir;” said Emily
blushing; “you will recollect yourself, and be sorry that you have asked
it.”

“Speak to the point,” rejoined Montoni, in a voice of increasing
vehemence. “Will you deny your own words; will you deny, that you
acknowledged, only a few hours ago, that it was too late to recede from your
engagements, and that you accepted the Count’s hand?”

“I will deny all this, for no words of mine ever imported it.”

“Astonishing! Will you deny what you wrote to Mons. Quesnel, your uncle?
If you do, your own hand will bear testimony against you. What have you now to
say?” continued Montoni, observing the silence and confusion of Emily.

“I now perceive, sir, that you are under a very great error, and that I
have been equally mistaken.”

“No more duplicity, I entreat; be open and candid, if it be
possible.”

“I have always been so, sir; and can claim no merit in such conduct, for
I have had nothing to conceal.”

“How is this, Signor?” cried Morano, with trembling emotion.

“Suspend your judgment, Count,” replied Montoni, “the wiles
of a female heart are unsearchable. Now, Madame, your
explanation.”

“Excuse me, sir, if I withhold my explanation till you appear willing to
give me your confidence; assertion as present can only subject me to
insult.”

“Your explanation, I entreat you!” said Morano.

“Well, well,” rejoined Montoni, “I give you my confidence;
let us hear this explanation.”

“Let me lead to it then, by asking a question.”

“As many as you please,” said Montoni, contemptuously.

“What, then, was the subject of your letter to Mons. Quesnel?”

“The same that was the subject of your note to him, certainly. You did
well to stipulate for my confidence before you demanded that question.”

“I must beg you will be more explicit, sir; what was that subject?”

“What could it be, but the noble offer of Count Morano,” said
Montoni.

“Then, sir, we entirely misunderstood each other,” replied Emily.

“We entirely misunderstood each other too, I suppose,” rejoined
Montoni, “in the conversation which preceded the writing of that note? I
must do you the justice to own, that you are very ingenious at this same art of
misunderstanding.”

Emily tried to restrain the tears that came to her eyes, and to answer with
becoming firmness. “Allow me, sir, to explain myself fully, or to be
wholly silent.”

“The explanation may now be dispensed with; it is anticipated. If Count
Morano still thinks one necessary, I will give him an honest one: you have
changed your intention since our last conversation; and, if he can have
patience and humility enough to wait till tomorrow, he will probably find it
changed again: but as I have neither the patience nor the humility, which you
expect from a lover, I warn you of the effect of my displeasure!”

“Montoni, you are too precipitate,” said the Count, who had
listened to this conversation in extreme agitation and
impatience;—“Signora, I entreat your own explanation of this
affair!”

“Signor Montoni has said justly,” replied Emily, “that all
explanation may now be dispensed with; after what has passed I cannot suffer
myself to give one. It is sufficient for me, and for you, sir, that I repeat my
late declaration; let me hope this is the last time it will be necessary for me
to repeat it—I never can accept the honour of your alliance.”

“Charming Emily!” exclaimed the Count in an impassioned tone,
“let not resentment make you unjust; let me not suffer for the offence of
Montoni!—Revoke—”

“Offence!” interrupted Montoni—“Count, this language is
ridiculous, this submission is childish!—speak as becomes a man, not as
the slave of a pretty tyrant.”

“You distract me, Signor; suffer me to plead my own cause; you have
already proved insufficient to it.”

“All conversation on this subject, sir,” said Emily, “is
worse than useless, since it can bring only pain to each of us: if you would
oblige me, pursue it no farther.”

“It is impossible, Madam, that I can thus easily resign the object of a
passion, which is the delight and torment of my life.—I must still
love—still pursue you with unremitting ardour;—when you shall be
convinced of the strength and constancy of my passion, your heart must soften
into pity and repentance.”

“Is this generous, sir? is this manly? Can it either deserve or obtain
the esteem you solicit, thus to continue a persecution from which I have no
present means of escaping?”

A gleam of moonlight that fell upon Morano’s countenance, revealed the
strong emotions of his soul; and, glancing on Montoni discovered the dark
resentment, which contrasted his features.

“By Heaven this is too much!” suddenly exclaimed the Count;
“Signor Montoni, you treat me ill; it is from you that I shall look for
explanation.”

“From me, sir! you shall have it;” muttered Montoni, “if your
discernment is indeed so far obscured by passion, as to make explanation
necessary. And for you, madam, you should learn, that a man of honour is not to
be trifled with, though you may, perhaps, with impunity, treat a boy
like a puppet.”

This sarcasm roused the pride of Morano, and the resentment which he had felt
at the indifference of Emily, being lost in indignation of the insolence of
Montoni, he determined to mortify him, by defending her.

“This also,” said he, replying to Montoni’s last words,
“this also, shall not pass unnoticed. I bid you learn, sir, that you have
a stronger enemy than a woman to contend with: I will protect Signora St.
Aubert from your threatened resentment. You have misled me, and would revenge
your disappointed views upon the innocent.”

“Misled you!” retorted Montoni with quickness, “is my
conduct—my word”—then pausing, while he seemed endeavouring
to restrain the resentment, that flashed in his eyes, in the next moment he
added, in a subdued voice, “Count Morano, this is a language, a sort of
conduct to which I am not accustomed: it is the conduct of a passionate
boy—as such, I pass it over in contempt.”

“In contempt, Signor?”

“The respect I owe myself,” rejoined Montoni, “requires, that
I should converse more largely with you upon some points of the subject in
dispute. Return with me to Venice, and I will condescend to convince you of
your error.”

“Condescend, sir! but I will not condescend to be so conversed
with.”

Montoni smiled contemptuously; and Emily, now terrified for the consequences of
what she saw and heard, could no longer be silent. She explained the whole
subject upon which she had mistaken Montoni in the morning, declaring, that she
understood him to have consulted her solely concerning the disposal of La
Vallée, and concluding with entreating, that he would write immediately to M.
Quesnel, and rectify the mistake.

But Montoni either was, or affected to be, still incredulous; and Count Morano
was still entangled in perplexity. While she was speaking, however, the
attention of her auditors had been diverted from the immediate occasion of
their resentment, and their passion consequently became less. Montoni desired
the Count would order his servants to row back to Venice, that he might have
some private conversation with him; and Morano, somewhat soothed by his
softened voice and manner, and eager to examine into the full extent of his
difficulties, complied.

Emily, comforted by this prospect of release, employed the present moments in
endeavouring, with conciliating care, to prevent any fatal mischief between the
persons who so lately had persecuted and insulted her.

Her spirits revived, when she heard once more the voice of song and laughter,
resounding from the grand canal, and at length entered again between its
stately piazzas. The zendaletto stopped at Montoni’s mansion, and
the Count hastily led her into the hall, where Montoni took his arm, and said
something in a low voice, on which Morano kissed the hand he held,
notwithstanding Emily’s effort to disengage it, and, wishing her a good
evening, with an accent and look she could not misunderstand, returned to his
zendaletto with Montoni.

Emily, in her own apartment, considered with intense anxiety all the unjust and
tyrannical conduct of Montoni, the dauntless perseverance of Morano, and her
own desolate situation, removed from her friends and country. She looked in
vain to Valancourt, confined by his profession to a distant kingdom, as her
protector; but it gave her comfort to know, that there was, at least, one
person in the world, who would sympathise in her afflictions, and whose wishes
would fly eagerly to release her. Yet she determined not to give him unavailing
pain by relating the reasons she had to regret the having rejected his better
judgment concerning Montoni; reasons, however, which could not induce her to
lament the delicacy and disinterested affection that had made her reject his
proposal for a clandestine marriage. The approaching interview with her uncle
she regarded with some degree of hope, for she determined to represent to him
the distresses of her situation, and to entreat that he would allow her to
return to France with him and Madame Quesnel. Then, suddenly remembering that
her beloved La Vallée, her only home, was no longer at her command, her tears
flowed anew, and she feared that she had little pity to expect from a man who,
like M. Quesnel, could dispose of it without deigning to consult with her, and
could dismiss an aged and faithful servant, destitute of either support or
asylum. But, though it was certain, that she had herself no longer a home in
France, and few, very few friends there, she determined to return, if possible,
that she might be released from the power of Montoni, whose particularly
oppressive conduct towards herself, and general character as to others, were
justly terrible to her imagination. She had no wish to reside with her uncle,
M. Quesnel, since his behaviour to her late father and to herself, had been
uniformly such as to convince her, that in flying to him she could only obtain
an exchange of oppressors; neither had she the slightest intention of
consenting to the proposal of Valancourt for an immediate marriage, though this
would give her a lawful and a generous protector, for the chief reasons, which
had formerly influenced her conduct, still existed against it, while others,
which seemed to justify the step, would not be done away; and his interest, his
fame were at all times too dear to her, to suffer her to consent to a union,
which, at this early period of their lives, would probably defeat both. One
sure, and proper asylum, however, would still be open to her in France. She
knew that she could board in the convent, where she had formerly experienced so
much kindness, and which had an affecting and solemn claim upon her heart,
since it contained the remains of her late father. Here she could remain in
safety and tranquillity, till the term, for which La Vallée might be let,
should expire; or, till the arrangement of M. Motteville’s affairs
enabled her so far to estimate the remains of her fortune, as to judge whether
it would be prudent for her to reside there.

Concerning Montoni’s conduct with respect to his letters to M. Quesnel,
she had many doubts; however he might be at first mistaken on the subject, she
much suspected that he wilfully persevered in his error, as a means of
intimidating her into a compliance with his wishes of uniting her to Count
Morano. Whether this was or was not the fact, she was extremely anxious to
explain the affair to M. Quesnel, and looked forward with a mixture of
impatience, hope and fear, to her approaching visit.

On the following day, Madame Montoni, being alone with Emily, introduced the
mention of Count Morano, by expressing her surprise, that she had not joined
the party on the water the preceding evening, and at her abrupt departure to
Venice. Emily then related what had passed, expressed her concern for the
mutual mistake that had occurred between Montoni and herself, and solicited her
aunt’s kind offices in urging him to give a decisive denial to the
count’s further addresses; but she soon perceived, that Madame Montoni
had not been ignorant of the late conversation, when she introduced the
present.

“You have no encouragement to expect from me,” said her aunt,
“in these notions. I have already given my opinion on the subject, and
think Signor Montoni right in enforcing, by any means, your consent. If young
persons will be blind to their interest, and obstinately oppose it, why, the
greatest blessings they can have are friends, who will oppose their folly. Pray
what pretensions of any kind do you think you have to such a match as is now
offered you?”

“Not any whatever, Madam,” replied Emily, “and, therefore, at
least, suffer me to be happy in my humility.”

“Nay, niece, it cannot be denied, that you have pride enough; my poor
brother, your father, had his share of pride too; though, let me add, his
fortune did not justify it.”

Emily, somewhat embarrassed by the indignation, which this malevolent allusion
to her father excited, and by the difficulty of rendering her answer as
temperate as it should be reprehensive, hesitated for some moments, in a
confusion, which highly gratified her aunt. At length she said, “My
father’s pride, Madam, had a noble object—the happiness which he
knew could be derived only from goodness, knowledge and charity. As it never
consisted in his superiority, in point of fortune, to some persons, it was not
humbled by his inferiority, in that respect, to others. He never disdained
those, who were wretched by poverty and misfortune; he did sometimes despise
persons, who, with many opportunities of happiness, rendered themselves
miserable by vanity, ignorance and cruelty. I shall think it my highest glory
to emulate such pride.”

“I do not pretend to understand anything of these high-flown sentiments,
niece; you have all that glory to yourself: I would teach you a little plain
sense, and not have you so wise as to despise happiness.”

“That would indeed not be wisdom, but folly,” said Emily,
“for wisdom can boast no higher attainment than happiness; but you will
allow, Madam, that our ideas of happiness may differ. I cannot doubt, that you
wish me to be happy, but I must fear you are mistaken in the means of making me
so.”

“I cannot boast of a learned education, niece, such as your father
thought proper to give you, and, therefore, do not pretend to understand all
these fine speeches about happiness. I must be contented to understand only
common sense, and happy would it have been for you and your father, if that had
been included in his education.”

Emily was too much shocked by these reflections on her father’s memory,
to despise this speech as it deserved.

Madame Montoni was about to speak, but Emily quitted the room, and retired to
her own, where the little spirit she had lately exerted yielded to grief and
vexation, and left her only to her tears. From every review of her situation
she could derive, indeed, only new sorrow. To the discovery, which had just
been forced upon her, of Montoni’s unworthiness, she had now to add, that
of the cruel vanity, for the gratification of which her aunt was about to
sacrifice her; of the effrontery and cunning, with which, at the time that she
meditated the sacrifice, she boasted of her tenderness, or insulted her victim;
and of the venomous envy, which, as it did not scruple to attack her
father’s character, could scarcely be expected to withhold from her own.

During the few days that intervened between this conversation and the departure
for Miarenti, Montoni did not once address himself to Emily. His looks
sufficiently declared his resentment; but that he should forbear to renew a
mention of the subject of it, exceedingly surprised her, who was no less
astonished, that, during three days, Count Morano neither visited Montoni, nor
was named by him. Several conjectures arose in her mind. Sometimes she feared
that the dispute between them had been revived, and had ended fatally to the
Count. Sometimes she was inclined to hope, that weariness, or disgust at her
firm rejection of his suit had induced him to relinquish it; and, at others,
she suspected that he had now recourse to stratagem, and forbore his visits,
and prevailed with Montoni to forbear the repetition of his name, in the
expectation that gratitude and generosity would prevail with her to give him
the consent, which he could not hope from love.

Thus passed the time in vain conjecture, and alternate hopes and fears, till
the day arrived when Montoni was to set out for the villa of Miarenti, which,
like the preceding ones, neither brought the Count, nor the mention of him.

Montoni having determined not to leave Venice, till towards evening, that he
might avoid the heats, and catch the cool breezes of night, embarked about an
hour before sunset, with his family, in a barge, for the Brenta. Emily sat
alone near the stern of the vessel, and, as it floated slowly on, watched the
gay and lofty city lessening from her view, till its palaces seemed to sink in
the distant waves, while its loftier towers and domes, illumined by the
declining sun, appeared on the horizon, like those far-seen clouds which, in
more northern climes, often linger on the western verge, and catch the last
light of a summer’s evening. Soon after, even these grew dim, and faded
in distance from her sight; but she still sat gazing on the vast scene of
cloudless sky, and mighty waters, and listening in pleasing awe to the
deep-sounding waves, while, as her eyes glanced over the Adriatic, towards the
opposite shores, which were, however, far beyond the reach of sight, she
thought of Greece, and, a thousand classical remembrances stealing to her mind,
she experienced that pensive luxury which is felt on viewing the scenes of
ancient story, and on comparing their present state of silence and solitude
with that of their former grandeur and animation. The scenes of the Illiad
illapsed in glowing colours to her fancy—scenes, once the haunt of
heroes—now lonely, and in ruins; but which still shone, in the
poet’s strain, in all their youthful splendour.

As her imagination painted with melancholy touches, the deserted plains of
Troy, such as they appeared in this after-day, she reanimated the landscape
with the following little story.

STANZAS

O’er Ilion’s plains, where once the warrior bled,
And once the poet rais’d his deathless strain,
O’er Ilion’s plains a weary driver led
His stately camels: For the ruin’d fane

Wide round the lonely scene his glance he threw,
For now the red cloud faded in the west,
And twilight o’er the silent landscape drew
Her deep’ning veil; eastward his course he prest:

There, on the grey horizon’s glimm’ring bound,
Rose the proud columns of deserted Troy,
And wandering shepherds now a shelter found
Within those walls, where princes wont to joy.

Beneath a lofty porch the driver pass’d,
Then, from his camels heav’d the heavy load;
Partook with them the simple, cool repast,
And in short vesper gave himself to God.

From distant lands with merchandise he came,
His all of wealth his patient servants bore;
Oft deep-drawn sighs his anxious wish proclaim
To reach, again, his happy cottage door;

For there, his wife, his little children, dwell;
Their smiles shall pay the toil of many an hour:
Ev’n now warm tears to expectation swell,
As fancy o’er his mind extends her pow’r.

A death-like stillness reign’d, where once the song,
The song of heroes, wak’d the midnight air,
Save, when a solemn murmur roll’d along,
That seem’d to say—“for future worlds prepare.”

For Time’s imperious voice was frequent heard
Shaking the marble temple to its fall,
(By hands he long had conquer’d, vainly rear’d),
And distant ruins answer’d to his call.

While Hamet slept, his camels round him lay,
Beneath him, all his store of wealth was piled;
And here, his cruse and empty wallet lay,
And there, the flute that chear’d him in the wild.

The robber Tartar on his slumber stole,
For o’er the waste, at eve, he watch’d his train;
Ah! who his thirst of plunder shall control?
Who calls on him for mercy—calls in vain!

A poison’d poignard in his belt he wore,
A crescent sword depended at his side,
The deathful quiver at his back he bore,
And infants—at his very look had died!

The moon’s cold beam athwart the temple fell,
And to his sleeping prey the Tartar led;
But soft!—a startled camel shook his bell,
Then stretch’d his limbs, and rear’d his drowsy head.

Hamet awoke! the poignard glitter’d high!
Swift from his couch he sprung, and ’scap’d the blow;
When from an unknown hand the arrows fly,
That lay the ruffian, in his vengeance, low.

He groan’d, he died! from forth a column’d gate
A fearful shepherd, pale and silent, crept,
Who, as he watch’d his folded flock star-late,
Had mark’d the robber steal where Hamet slept.

He fear’d his own, and sav’d a stranger’s life!
Poor Hamet clasp’d him to his grateful heart;
Then, rous’d his camels for the dusty strife,
And, with the shepherd, hasten’d to depart.

And now, aurora breathes her fresh’ning gale,
And faintly trembles on the eastern cloud;
And now, the sun, from under twilight’s veil,
Looks gaily forth, and melts her airy shroud.

Wide o’er the level plains, his slanting beams
Dart their long lines on Ilion’s tower’d site;
The distant Hellespont with morning gleams,
And old Scamander winds his waves in light.

All merry sound the camel bells, so gay,
And merry beats fond Hamet’s heart, for he,
E’er the dim evening steals upon the day,
His children, wife and happy home shall see.

As Emily approached the shores of Italy she began to discriminate the rich
features and varied colouring of the landscape—the purple hills, groves
of orange pine and cypress, shading magnificent villas, and towns rising among
vineyards and plantations. The noble Brenta, pouring its broad waves into the
sea, now appeared, and, when she reached its mouth, the barge stopped, that the
horses might be fastened which were now to tow it up the stream. This done,
Emily gave a last look to the Adriatic, and to the dim sail,

that from the sky-mix’d wave
Dawns on the sight,

and the barge slowly glided between the green and luxuriant slopes of the
river. The grandeur of the Palladian villas, that adorn these shores, was
considerably heightened by the setting rays, which threw strong contrasts of
light and shade upon the porticos and long arcades, and beamed a mellow lustre
upon the orangeries and the tall groves of pine and cypress, that overhung the
buildings. The scent of oranges, of flowering myrtles, and other odoriferous
plants was diffused upon the air, and often, from these embowered retreats, a
strain of music stole on the calm, and “softened into silence.”

The sun now sunk below the horizon, twilight fell over the landscape, and
Emily, wrapt in musing silence, continued to watch its features gradually
vanishing into obscurity. She remembered her many happy evenings, when with St.
Aubert she had observed the shades of twilight steal over a scene as beautiful
as this, from the gardens of La Vallée, and a tear fell to the memory of her
father. Her spirits were softened into melancholy by the influence of the hour,
by the low murmur of the wave passing under the vessel, and the stillness of
the air, that trembled only at intervals with distant music:—why else
should she, at these moments, have looked on her attachment to Valancourt with
presages so very afflicting, since she had but lately received letters from
him, that had soothed for a while all her anxieties? It now seemed to her
oppressed mind, that she had taken leave of him for ever, and that the
countries, which separated them, would never more be retraced by her. She
looked upon Count Morano with horror, as in some degree the cause of this; but
apart from him, a conviction, if such that may be called, which arises from no
proof, and which she knew not how to account for, seized her mind—that
she should never see Valancourt again. Though she knew, that neither
Morano’s solicitations, nor Montoni’s commands had lawful power to
enforce her obedience, she regarded both with a superstitious dread, that they
would finally prevail.

Lost in this melancholy reverie, and shedding frequent tears, Emily was at
length roused by Montoni, and she followed him to the cabin, where refreshments
were spread, and her aunt was seated alone. The countenance of Madame Montoni
was inflamed with resentment, that appeared to be the consequence of some
conversation she had held with her husband, who regarded her with a kind of
sullen disdain, and both preserved, for some time, a haughty silence. Montoni
then spoke to Emily of Mons. Quesnel: “You will not, I hope, persist in
disclaiming your knowledge of the subject of my letter to him?”

“I had hoped, sir, that it was no longer necessary for me to disclaim
it,” said Emily, “I had hoped, from your silence, that you were
convinced of your error.”

“You have hoped impossibilities then,” replied Montoni; “I
might as reasonably have expected to find sincerity and uniformity of conduct
in one of your sex, as you to convict me of error in this affair.”

Emily blushed, and was silent; she now perceived too clearly, that she had
hoped an impossibility, for, where no mistake had been committed no conviction
could follow; and it was evident, that Montoni’s conduct had not been the
consequence of mistake, but of design.

Anxious to escape from conversation, which was both afflicting and humiliating
to her, she soon returned to the deck, and resumed her station near the stern,
without apprehension of cold, for no vapour rose from the water, and the air
was dry and tranquil; here, at least, the benevolence of nature allowed her the
quiet which Montoni had denied her elsewhere. It was now past midnight. The
stars shed a kind of twilight, that served to show the dark outline of the
shores on either hand, and the grey surface of the river; till the moon rose
from behind a high palm grove, and shed her mellow lustre over the scene. The
vessel glided smoothly on: amid the stillness of the hour Emily heard, now and
then, the solitary voice of the barge-men on the bank, as they spoke to their
horses; while, from a remote part of the vessel, with melancholy song,

The sailor sooth’d,
Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave.

Emily, meanwhile, anticipated her reception by Mons, and Madame Quesnel;
considered what she should say on the subject of La Vallée; and then, to
withhold her mind from more anxious topics, tried to amuse herself by
discriminating the faint-drawn features of the landscape, reposing in the
moonlight. While her fancy thus wandered, she saw, at a distance, a building
peeping between the moonlight trees, and, as the barge approached, heard
voices speaking, and soon distinguished the lofty portico of a villa,
overshadowed by groves of pine and sycamore, which she recollected to be the
same, that had formerly been pointed out to her, as belonging to Madame
Quesnel’s relative.

The barge stopped at a flight of marble steps, which led up the bank to a lawn.
Lights appeared between some pillars beyond the portico. Montoni sent forward
his servant, and then disembarked with his family. They found Mons. and Madame
Quesnel, with a few friends, seated on sofas in the portico, enjoying the cool
breeze of the night, and eating fruits and ices, while some of their servants
at a little distance, on the river’s bank, were performing a simple
serenade. Emily was now accustomed to the way of living in this warm country,
and was not surprised to find Mons. and Madame Quesnel in their portico, two
hours after midnight.

The usual salutations being over, the company seated themselves in the portico,
and refreshments were brought them from the adjoining hall, where a banquet was
spread, and servants attended. When the bustle of this meeting had subsided,
and Emily had recovered from the little flutter into which it had thrown her
spirits, she was struck with the singular beauty of the hall, so perfectly
accommodated to the luxuries of the season. It was of white marble, and the
roof, rising into an open cupola, was supported by columns of the same
material. Two opposite sides of the apartment, terminating in open porticos,
admitted to the hall a full view of the gardens, and of the river scenery; in
the centre a fountain continually refreshed the air, and seemed to heighten the
fragrance, that breathed from the surrounding orangeries, while its dashing
waters gave an agreeable and soothing sound. Etruscan lamps, suspended from the
pillars, diffused a brilliant light over the interior part of the hall, leaving
the remoter porticos to the softer lustre of the moon.

Mons. Quesnel talked apart to Montoni of his own affairs, in his usual strain
of self-importance; boasted of his new acquisitions, and then affected to pity
some disappointments, which Montoni had lately sustained. Meanwhile, the
latter, whose pride at least enabled him to despise such vanity as this, and
whose discernment at once detected under this assumed pity, the frivolous
malignity of Quesnel’s mind, listened to him in contemptuous silence,
till he named his niece, and then they left the portico, and walked away into
the gardens.

Emily, however, still attended to Madame Quesnel, who spoke of France (for even
the name of her native country was dear to her) and she found some pleasure in
looking at a person, who had lately been in it. That country, too, was
inhabited by Valancourt, and she listened to the mention of it, with a faint
hope, that he also would be named. Madame Quesnel, who, when she was in France,
had talked with rapture of Italy, now, that she was in Italy, talked with equal
praise of France, and endeavoured to excite the wonder and the envy of her
auditors by accounts of places, which they had not been happy enough to see. In
these descriptions she not only imposed upon them, but upon herself, for she
never thought a present pleasure equal to one, that was passed; and thus the
delicious climate, the fragrant orangeries and all the luxuries, which
surrounded her, slept unnoticed, while her fancy wandered over the distant
scenes of a northern country.

Emily listened in vain for the name of Valancourt. Madame Montoni spoke in her
turn of the delights of Venice, and of the pleasure she expected from visiting
the fine castle of Montoni, on the Apennine; which latter mention, at least,
was merely a retaliating boast, for Emily well knew, that her aunt had no taste
for solitary grandeur, and, particularly, for such as the castle of Udolpho
promised. Thus the party continued to converse, and, as far as civility would
permit, to torture each other by mutual boasts, while they reclined on sofas in
the portico, and were environed with delights both from nature and art, by
which any honest minds would have been tempered to benevolence, and happy
imaginations would have been soothed into enchantment.

The dawn, soon after, trembled in the eastern horizon, and the light tints of
morning, gradually expanding, showed the beautifully declining forms of the
Italian mountains and the gleaming landscapes, stretched at their feet. Then
the sunbeams, shooting up from behind the hills, spread over the scene that
fine saffron tinge, which seems to impart repose to all it touches. The
landscape no longer gleamed; all its glowing colours were revealed, except that
its remoter features were still softened and united in the mist of distance,
whose sweet effect was heightened to Emily by the dark verdure of the pines and
cypresses, that over-arched the foreground of the river.

The market people, passing with their boats to Venice, now formed a moving
picture on the Brenta. Most of these had little painted awnings, to shelter
their owners from the sunbeams, which, together with the piles of fruit and
flowers, displayed beneath, and the tasteful simplicity of the peasant girls,
who watched the rural treasures, rendered them gay and striking objects. The
swift movement of the boats down the current, the quick glance of oars in the
water, and now and then the passing chorus of peasants, who reclined under the
sail of their little bark, or the tones of some rustic instrument, played by a
girl, as she sat near her sylvan cargo, heightened the animation and festivity
of the scene.