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.