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When the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn, he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.