CHAPTER I
home
is the resortOf
love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,Supporting
and supported, polish'd friendsAnd
dear relations mingle into bliss.*
*ThomsonOn
the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of Gascony, stood,
in the year 1584, the chateau 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 realize 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 characterized the manners of its inhabitants.The
library occupied the west side of the chateau, 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 chateau, 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 aether, 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:SONNETGo,
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 concealThe
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. Every thing
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
re-collected courage to advance to the fishing-house, which she
entered with faltering steps, and found unoccupied! Her lute lay on
the table; every thing 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
vallies 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 chateau, 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 chateau, 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 Vallee, 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 chateau
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 any thing, 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 chateau, and raise
upon the site a set of stables. 'Then I shall build,' said he, 'a
SALLE A 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 chateau 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
chateau, 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 A-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 chateau, 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,whereAt
fall of eve the fairy-people throng,In
various games and revelry to passThe
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-WORMHow
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 gayTripping
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 moon-light 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
canfree.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 rayGlanc'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 retainThe
ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene,Uncertain
if beheld.*
*Thomson.St.
Aubert continued silent till he reached the chateau, 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 re-animate 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 awhile, 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 wordWould
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 sun-shine 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 shewn 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
shew 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 shew 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 shew 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 chateau, on the
skirts of the woods, near La Vallee. 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 chateau, 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
sympathize 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 Tholouse. 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 sympathized 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 chateau. 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 gate-way that led into the
courts, the drawbridge, and the dry fosse 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
every thing 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 chateau, 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 chateau 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.
