Aerial forms shall sit at eve,
and bend the pensive3 head.
COLLINS
The monk4, who had before appeared, returned in the evening to offer consolation5 to Emily, and brought a kind message from the lady abbess, inviting6 her to the convent. Emily, though she did not accept the offer, returned an answer expressive7 of her gratitude8. The holy conversation of the friar, whose mild benevolence9 of manners bore some resemblance to those of St. Aubert, soothed10 the violence of her grief, and lifted her heart to the Being, who, extending through all place and all eternity11, looks on the events of this little world as on the shadows of a moment, and beholds12 equally, and in the same instant, the soul that has passed the gates of death, and that, which still lingers in the body. ‘In the sight of God,’ said Emily, ‘my dear father now exists, as truly as he yesterday existed to me; it is to me only that he is dead; to God and to himself he yet lives!’
The good monk left her more tranquil13 than she had been since St. Aubert died; and, before she retired14 to her little cabin for the night, she trusted herself so far as to visit the corpse15. Silent, and without weeping, she stood by its side. The features, placid16 and serene17, told the nature of the last sensations, that had lingered in the now deserted18 frame. For a moment she turned away, in horror of the stillness in which death had fixed19 that countenance20, never till now seen otherwise than animated21; then gazed on it with a mixture of doubt and awful astonishment22. Her reason could scarcely overcome an involuntary and unaccountable expectation of seeing that beloved countenance still susceptible23. She continued to gaze wildly; took up the cold hand; spoke24; still gazed, and then burst into a transport of grief. La Voisin, hearing her sobs26, came into the room to lead her away, but she heard nothing, and only begged that he would leave her.
Again alone, she indulged her tears, and, when the gloom of evening obscured the chamber27, and almost veiled from her eyes the object of her distress28, she still hung over the body; till her spirits, at length, were exhausted29, and she became tranquil. La Voisin again knocked at the door, and entreated30 that she would come to the common apartment. Before she went, she kissed the lips of St. Aubert, as she was wont31 to do when she bade him good night. Again she kissed them; her heart felt as if it would break, a few tears of agony started to her eyes, she looked up to heaven, then at St. Aubert, and left the room.
Retired to her lonely cabin, her melancholy32 thoughts still hovered33 round the body of her deceased parent; and, when she sunk into a kind of slumber34, the images of her waking mind still haunted her fancy. She thought she saw her father approaching her with a benign35 countenance; then, smiling mournfully and pointing upwards36, his lips moved, but, instead of words, she heard sweet music borne on the distant air, and presently saw his features glow with the mild rapture37 of a superior being. The strain seemed to swell38 louder, and she awoke. The vision was gone, but music yet came to her ear in strains such as angels might breathe. She doubted, listened, raised herself in the bed, and again listened. It was music, and not an illusion of her imagination. After a solemn steady harmony, it paused; then rose again, in mournful sweetness, and then died, in a cadence39, that seemed to bear away the listening soul to heaven. She instantly remembered the music of the preceding night, with the strange circumstances, related by La Voisin, and the affecting conversation it had led to, concerning the state of departed spirits. All that St. Aubert had said, on that subject, now pressed upon her heart, and overwhelmed it. What a change in a few hours! He, who then could only conjecture40, was now made acquainted with truth; was himself become one of the departed! As she listened, she was chilled with superstitious41 awe42, her tears stopped; and she rose, and went to the window. All without was obscured in shade; but Emily, turning her eyes from the massy darkness of the woods, whose waving outline appeared on the horizon, saw, on the left, that effulgent43 planet, which the old man had pointed44 out, setting over the woods. She remembered what he had said concerning it, and, the music now coming at intervals45 on the air, she unclosed the casement46 to listen to the strains, that soon gradually sunk to a greater distance, and tried to discover whence they came. The obscurity prevented her from distinguishing any object on the green platform below; and the sounds became fainter and fainter, till they softened47 into silence. She listened, but they returned no more. Soon after, she observed the planet trembling between the fringed tops of the woods, and, in the next moment, sink behind them. Chilled with a melancholy awe, she retired once more to her bed, and, at length, forgot for a while her sorrows in sleep.
On the following morning, she was visited by a sister of the convent, who came, with kind offices and a second invitation from the lady abbess; and Emily, though she could not forsake48 the cottage, while the remains49 of her father were in it, consented, however painful such a visit must be, in the present state of her spirits, to pay her respects to the abbess, in the evening.
About an hour before sun-set, La Voisin shewed her the way through the woods to the convent, which stood in a small bay of the Mediterranean50, crowned by a woody amphitheatre; and Emily, had she been less unhappy, would have admired the extensive sea view, that appeared from the green slope, in front of the edifice51, and the rich shores, hung with woods and pastures, that extended on either hand. But her thoughts were now occupied by one sad idea, and the features of nature were to her colourless and without form. The bell for vespers struck, as she passed the ancient gate of the convent, and seemed the funereal52 note for St. Aubert. Little incidents affect a mind, enervated53 by sorrow; Emily struggled against the sickening faintness, that came over her, and was led into the presence of the abbess, who received her with an air of maternal54 tenderness; an air of such gentle solicitude55 and consideration, as touched her with an instantaneous gratitude; her eyes were filled with tears, and the words she would have spoken faltered56 on her lips. The abbess led her to a seat, and sat down beside her, still holding her hand and regarding her in silence, as Emily dried her tears and attempted to speak. ‘Be composed, my daughter,’ said the abbess in a soothing58 voice, ‘do not speak yet; I know all you would say. Your spirits must be soothed. We are going to prayers;— will you attend our evening service? It is comfortable, my child, to look up in our afflictions to a father, who sees and pities us, and who chastens in his mercy.’
Emily’s tears flowed again, but a thousand sweet emotions mingled59 with them. The abbess suffered her to weep without interruption, and watched over her with a look of benignity60, that might have characterized the countenance of a guardian61 angel. Emily, when she became tranquil, was encouraged to speak without reserve, and to mention the motive62, that made her unwilling63 to quit the cottage, which the abbess did not oppose even by a hint; but praised the filial piety64 of her conduct, and added a hope, that she would pass a few days at the convent, before she returned to La Vallee. ‘You must allow yourself a little time to recover from your first shock, my daughter, before you encounter a second; I will not affect to conceal65 from you how much I know your heart must suffer, on returning to the scene of your former happiness. Here, you will have all, that quiet and sympathy and religion can give, to restore your spirits. But come,’ added she, observing the tears swell in Emily’s eyes, ‘we will go to the chapel66.’
Emily followed to the parlour, where the nuns68 were assembled, to whom the abbess committed her, saying, ‘This is a daughter, for whom I have much esteem69; be sisters to her.’
They passed on in a train to the chapel, where the solemn devotion, with which the service was performed, elevated her mind, and brought to it the comforts of faith and resignation.
Twilight70 came on, before the abbess’s kindness would suffer Emily to depart, when she left the convent, with a heart much lighter71 than she had entered it, and was reconducted by La Voisin through the woods, the pensive gloom of which was in unison72 with the temper of her mind; and she pursued the little wild path, in musing73 silence, till her guide suddenly stopped, looked round, and then struck out of the path into the high grass, saying he had mistaken the road. He now walked on quickly, and Emily, proceeding74 with difficulty over the obscured and uneven75 ground, was left at some distance, till her voice arrested him, who seemed unwilling to stop, and still hurried on. ‘If you are in doubt about the way,’ said Emily, ‘had we not better enquire76 it at the chateau77 yonder, between the trees?’
‘No,’ replied La Voisin, ‘there is no occasion. When we reach that brook78, ma’amselle, (you see the light upon the water there, beyond the woods) when we reach that brook, we shall be at home presently. I don’t know how I happened to mistake the path; I seldom come this way after sun-set.’
‘It is solitary79 enough,’ said Emily, ‘but you have no banditti here.’ ‘No, ma’amselle — no banditti.’
‘what are you afraid of then, my good friend? you are not superstitious?’ ‘No, not superstitious; but, to tell you the truth, lady, nobody likes to go near that chateau, after dusk.’ ‘By whom is it inhabited,’ said Emily, ‘that it is so formidable?’ ‘Why, ma’amselle, it is scarcely inhabited, for our lord the Marquis, and the lord of all these find woods, too, is dead. He had not once been in it, for these many years, and his people, who have the care of it, live in a cottage close by.’ Emily now understood this to be the chateau, which La Voisin had formerly80 pointed out, as having belonged to the Marquis Villeroi, on the mention of which her father had appeared so much affected81.
‘Ah! it is a desolate82 place now,’ continued La Voisin, ‘and such a grand, fine place, as I remember it!’ Emily enquired83 what had occasioned this lamentable84 change; but the old man was silent, and Emily, whose interest was awakened85 by the fear he had expressed, and above all by a recollection of her father’s agitation87, repeated the question, and added, ‘If you are neither afraid of the inhabitants, my good friend, nor are superstitious, how happens it, that you dread88 to pass near that chateau in the dark?’
‘Perhaps, then, I am a little superstitious, ma’amselle; and, if you knew what I do, you might be so too. Strange things have happened there. Monsieur, your good father, appeared to have known the late Marchioness.’ ‘Pray inform me what did happen?’ said Emily, with much emotion.
‘Alas89! ma’amselle,’ answered La Voisin, ‘enquire no further; it is not for me to lay open the domestic secrets of my lord.’— Emily, surprised by the old man’s words, and his manner of delivering them, forbore to repeat her question; a nearer interest, the remembrance of St. Aubert, occupied her thoughts, and she was led to recollect86 the music she heard on the preceding night, which she mentioned to La Voisin. ‘You was not alone, ma’amselle, in this,’ he replied, ‘I heard it too; but I have so often heard it, at the same hour, that I was scarcely surprised.’
‘You doubtless believe this music to have some connection with the chateau,’ said Emily suddenly, ‘and are, therefore, superstitious.’ ‘It may be so, ma’amselle, but there are other circumstances, belonging to that chateau, which I remember, and sadly too.’ A heavy sigh followed: but Emily’s delicacy90 restrained the curiosity these words revived, and she enquired no further.
On reaching the cottage, all the violence of her grief returned; it seemed as if she had escaped its heavy pressure only while she was removed from the object of it. She passed immediately to the chamber, where the remains of her father were laid, and yielded to all the anguish92 of hopeless grief. La Voisin, at length, persuaded her to leave the room, and she returned to her own, where, exhausted by the sufferings of the day, she soon fell into deep sleep, and awoke considerably93 refreshed.
When the dreadful hour arrived, in which the remains of St. Aubert were to be taken from her for ever, she went alone to the chamber to look upon his countenance yet once again, and La Voisin, who had waited patiently below stairs, till her despair should subside94, with the respect due to grief, forbore to interrupt the indulgence of it, till surprise, at the length of her stay, and then apprehension95 overcame his delicacy, and he went to lead her from the chamber. Having tapped gently at the door, without receiving an answer, he listened attentively96, but all was still; no sigh, no sob25 of anguish was heard. Yet more alarmed by this silence, he opened the door, and found Emily lying senseless across the foot of the bed, near which stood the coffin97. His calls procured98 assistance, and she was carried to her room, where proper applications, at length, restored her.
During her state of insensibility, La Voisin had given directions for the coffin to be closed, and he succeeded in persuading Emily to forbear revisiting the chamber. She, indeed, felt herself unequal to this, and also perceived the necessity of sparing her spirits, and recollecting99 fortitude100 sufficient to bear her through the approaching scene. St. Aubert had given a particular injunction, that his remains should be interred101 in the church of the convent of St. Clair, and, in mentioning the north chancel, near the ancient tomb of the Villerois, had pointed out the exact spot, where he wished to be laid. The superior had granted this place for the interment, and thither102, therefore, the sad procession now moved, which was met, at the gates, by the venerable priest, followed by a train of friars. Every person, who heard the solemn chant of the anthem103, and the peal104 of the organ, that struck up, when the body entered the church, and saw also the feeble steps, and the assumed tranquillity105 of Emily, gave her involuntary tears. She shed none, but walked, her face partly shaded by a thin black veil, between two persons, who supported her, preceded by the abbess, and followed by nuns, whose plaintive106 voices mellowed107 the swelling109 harmony of the dirge110. When the procession came to the grave the music ceased. Emily drew the veil entirely111 over her face, and, in a momentary112 pause, between the anthem and the rest of the service, her sobs were distinctly audible. The holy father began the service, and Emily again commanded her feelings, till the coffin was let down, and she heard the earth rattle113 on its lid. Then, as she shuddered114, a groan115 burst from her heart, and she leaned for support on the person who stood next to her. In a few moments she recovered; and, when she heard those affecting and sublime116 words: ‘His body is buried in peace, and his soul returns to Him that gave it,’ her anguish softened into tears.
The abbess led her from the church into her own parlour, and there administered all the consolations117, that religion and gentle sympathy can give. Emily struggled against the pressure of grief; but the abbess, observing her attentively, ordered a bed to be prepared, and recommended her to retire to repose118. She also kindly119 claimed her promise to remain a few days at the convent; and Emily, who had no wish to return to the cottage, the scene of all her sufferings, had leisure, now that no immediate91 care pressed upon her attention, to feel the indisposition, which disabled her from immediately travelling.
Meanwhile, the maternal kindness of the abbess, and the gentle attentions of the nuns did all, that was possible, towards soothing her spirits and restoring her health. But the latter was too deeply wounded, through the medium of her mind, to be quickly revived. She lingered for some weeks at the convent, under the influence of a slow fever, wishing to return home, yet unable to go thither; often even reluctant to leave the spot where her father’s relics120 were deposited, and sometimes soothing herself with the consideration, that, if she died here, her remains would repose beside those of St. Aubert. In the meanwhile, she sent letters to Madame Cheron and to the old housekeeper121, informing them of the sad event, that had taken place, and of her own situation. From her aunt she received an answer, abounding122 more in common-place condolement, than in traits of real sorrow, which assured her, that a servant should be sent to conduct her to La Vallee, for that her own time was so much occupied by company, that she had no leisure to undertake so long a journey. However Emily might prefer La Vallee to Tholouse, she could not be insensible to the indecorous and unkind conduct of her aunt, in suffering her to return thither, where she had no longer a relation to console and protect her; a conduct, which was the more culpable123, since St. Aubert had appointed Madame Cheron the guardian of his orphan124 daughter.
Madame Cheron’s servant made the attendance of the good La Voisin unnecessary; and Emily, who felt sensibly her obligations to him, for all his kind attention to her late father, as well as to herself, was glad to spare him a long, and what, at his time of life, must have been a troublesome journey.
During her stay at the convent, the peace and sanctity that reigned125 within, the tranquil beauty of the scenery without, and the delicate attentions of the abbess and the nuns, were circumstances so soothing to her mind, that they almost tempted57 her to leave a world, where she had lost her dearest friends, and devote herself to the cloister126, in a spot, rendered sacred to her by containing the tomb of St. Aubert. The pensive enthusiasm, too, so natural to her temper, had spread a beautiful illusion over the sanctified retirement127 of a nun67, that almost hid from her view the selfishness of its security. But the touches, which a melancholy fancy, slightly tinctured with superstition128, gave to the monastic scene, began to fade, as her spirits revived, and brought once more to her heart an image, which had only transiently been banished129 thence. By this she was silently awakened to hope and comfort and sweet affections; visions of happiness gleamed faintly at a distance, and, though she knew them to be illusions, she could not resolve to shut them out for ever. It was the remembrance of Valancourt, of his taste, his genius, and of the countenance which glowed with both, that, perhaps, alone determined130 her to return to the world. The grandeur131 and sublimity132 of the scenes, amidst which they had first met, had fascinated her fancy, and had imperceptibly contributed to render Valancourt more interesting by seeming to communicate to him somewhat of their own character. The esteem, too, which St. Aubert had repeatedly expressed for him, sanctioned this kindness; but, though his countenance and manner had continually expressed his admiration133 of her, he had not otherwise declared it; and even the hope of seeing him again was so distant, that she was scarcely conscious of it, still less that it influenced her conduct on this occasion.
It was several days after the arrival of Madame Cheron’s servant before Emily was sufficiently134 recovered to undertake the journey to La Vallee. On the evening preceding her departure, she went to the cottage to take leave of La Voisin and his family, and to make them a return for their kindness. The old man she found sitting on a bench at his door, between his daughter, and his son-in-law, who was just returned from his daily labour, and who was playing upon a pipe, that, in tone, resembled an oboe. A flask135 of wine stood beside the old man, and, before him, a small table with fruit and bread, round which stood several of his grandsons, fine rosy136 children, who were taking their supper, as their mother distributed it. On the edge of the little green, that spread before the cottage, were cattle and a few sheep reposing137 under the trees. The landscape was touched with the mellow108 light of the evening sun, whose long slanting138 beams played through a vista139 of the woods, and lighted up the distant turrets140 of the chateau. She paused a moment, before she emerged from the shade, to gaze upon the happy group before her — on the complacency and ease of healthy age, depictured on the countenance of La Voisin; the maternal tenderness of Agnes, as she looked upon her children, and the innocency141 of infantine pleasures, reflected in their smiles. Emily looked again at the venerable old man, and at the cottage; the memory of her father rose with full force upon her mind, and she hastily stepped forward, afraid to trust herself with a longer pause. She took an affectionate and affecting leave of La Voisin and his family; he seemed to love her as his daughter, and shed tears; Emily shed many. She avoided going into the cottage, since she knew it would revive emotions, such as she could not now endure.
One painful scene yet awaited her, for she determined to visit again her father’s grave; and that she might not be interrupted, or observed in the indulgence of her melancholy tenderness, she deferred142 her visit, till every inhabitant of the convent, except the nun who promised to bring her the key of the church, should be retired to rest. Emily remained in her chamber, till she heard the convent bell strike twelve, when the nun came, as she had appointed, with the key of a private door, that opened into the church, and they descended143 together the narrow winding144 stair-case, that led thither. The nun offered to accompany Emily to the grave, adding, ‘It is melancholy to go alone at this hour;’ but the former, thanking her for the consideration, could not consent to have any witness of her sorrow; and the sister, having unlocked the door, gave her the lamp. ‘You will remember, sister,’ said she, ‘that in the east aisle145, which you must pass, is a newly opened grave; hold the light to the ground, that you may not stumble over the loose earth.’ Emily, thanking her again, took the lamp, and, stepping into the church, sister Mariette departed. But Emily paused a moment at the door; a sudden fear came over her, and she returned to the foot of the stair-case, where, as she heard the steps of the nun ascending146, and, while she held up the lamp, saw her black veil waving over the spiral balusters, she was tempted to call her back. While she hesitated, the veil disappeared, and, in the next moment, ashamed of her fears, she returned to the church. The cold air of the aisles147 chilled her, and their deep silence and extent, feebly shone upon by the moon-light, that streamed through a distant gothic window, would at any other time have awed148 her into superstition; now, grief occupied all her attention. She scarcely heard the whispering echoes of her own steps, or thought of the open grave, till she found herself almost on its brink149. A friar of the convent had been buried there on the preceding evening, and, as she had sat alone in her chamber at twilight, she heard, at distance, the monks150 chanting the requiem151 for his soul. This brought freshly to her memory the circumstances of her father’s death; and, as the voices, mingling152 with a low querulous peal of the organ, swelled153 faintly, gloomy and affecting visions had arisen upon her mind. Now she remembered them, and, turning aside to avoid the broken ground, these recollections made her pass on with quicker steps to the grave of St. Aubert, when in the moon-light, that fell athwart a remote part of the aisle, she thought she saw a shadow gliding154 between the pillars. She stopped to listen, and, not hearing any footstep, believed that her fancy had deceived her, and, no longer apprehensive155 of being observed, proceeded. St. Aubert was buried beneath a plain marble, bearing little more than his name and the date of his birth and death, near the foot of the stately monument of the Villerois. Emily remained at his grave, till a chime, that called the monks to early prayers, warned her to retire; then, she wept over it a last farewel, and forced herself from the spot. After this hour of melancholy indulgence, she was refreshed by a deeper sleep, than she had experienced for a long time, and, on awakening156, her mind was more tranquil and resigned, than it had been since St. Aubert’s death.
But, when the moment of her departure from the convent arrived, all her grief returned; the memory of the dead, and the kindness of the living attached her to the place; and for the sacred spot, where her father’s remains were interred, she seemed to feel all those tender affections which we conceive for home. The abbess repeated many kind assurances of regard at their parting, and pressed her to return, if ever she should find her condition elsewhere unpleasant; many of the nuns also expressed unaffected regret at her departure, and Emily left the convent with many tears, and followed by sincere wishes for her happiness.
She had travelled several leagues, before the scenes of the country, through which she passed, had power to rouse her for a moment from the deep melancholy, into which she was sunk, and, when they did, it was only to remind her, that, on her last view of them, St. Aubert was at her side, and to call up to her remembrance the remarks he had delivered on similar scenery. Thus, without any particular occurrence, passed the day in languor157 and dejection. She slept that night in a town on the skirts of Languedoc, and, on the following morning, entered Gascony.
Towards the close of this day, Emily came within view of the plains in the neighbourhood of La Vallee, and the well-known objects of former times began to press upon her notice, and with them recollections, that awakened all her tenderness and grief. Often, while she looked through her tears upon the wild grandeur of the Pyrenees, now varied158 with the rich lights and shadows of evening, she remembered, that, when last she saw them, her father partook with her of the pleasure they inspired. Suddenly some scene, which he had particularly pointed out to her, would present itself, and the sick languor of despair would steal upon her heart. ‘There!’ she would exclaim, ‘there are the very cliffs, there the wood of pines, which he looked at with such delight, as we passed this road together for the last time. There, too, under the crag of that mountain, is the cottage, peeping from among the cedars159, which he bade me remember, and copy with my pencil. O my father, shall I never see you more!’
As she drew near the chateau, these melancholy memorials of past times multiplied. At length, the chateau itself appeared, amid the glowing beauty of St. Aubert’s favourite landscape. This was an object, which called for fortitude, not for tears; Emily dried hers, and prepared to meet with calmness the trying moment of her return to that home, where there was no longer a parent to welcome her. ‘Yes,’ said she, ‘let me not forget the lessons he has taught me! How often he has pointed out the necessity of resisting even virtuous160 sorrow; how often we have admired together the greatness of a mind, that can at once suffer and reason! O my father! if you are permitted to look down upon your child, it will please you to see, that she remembers, and endeavours to practise, the precepts161 you have given her.’
A turn on the road now allowed a nearer view of the chateau, the chimneys, tipped with light, rising from behind St. Aubert’s favourite oaks, whose foliage162 partly concealed163 the lower part of the building. Emily could not suppress a heavy sigh. ‘This, too, was his favourite hour,’ said she, as she gazed upon the long evening shadows, stretched athwart the landscape. ‘How deep the repose, how lovely the scene! lovely and tranquil as in former days!’
Again she resisted the pressure of sorrow, till her ear caught the gay melody of the dance, which she had so often listened to, as she walked with St. Aubert, on the margin164 of the Garonne, when all her fortitude forsook165 her, and she continued to weep, till the carriage stopped at the little gate, that opened upon what was now her own territory. She raised her eyes on the sudden stopping of the carriage, and saw her father’s old housekeeper coming to open the gate. Manchon also came running, and barking before her; and when his young mistress alighted, fawned166, and played round her, gasping167 with joy.
‘Dear ma’amselle!’ said Theresa, and paused, and looked as if she would have offered something of condolement to Emily, whose tears now prevented reply. The dog still fawned and ran round her, and then flew towards the carriage, with a short quick bark. ‘Ah, ma’amselle!— my poor master!’ said Theresa, whose feelings were more awakened than her delicacy, ‘Manchon’s gone to look for him.’ Emily sobbed168 aloud; and, on looking towards the carriage, which still stood with the door open, saw the animal spring into it, and instantly leap out, and then with his nose on the ground run round the horses.
‘Don’t cry so, ma’amselle,’ said Theresa, ‘it breaks my heart to see you.’ The dog now came running to Emily, then returned to the carriage, and then back again to her, whining169 and discontented. ‘Poor rogue170!’ said Theresa, ‘thou hast lost thy master, thou mayst well cry! But come, my dear young lady, be comforted. What shall I get to refresh you?’ Emily gave her hand to the old servant, and tried to restrain her grief, while she made some kind enquiries concerning her health. But she still lingered in the walk which led to the chateau, for within was no person to meet her with the kiss of affection; her own heart no longer palpitated with impatient joy to meet again the well-known smile, and she dreaded171 to see objects, which would recall the full remembrance of her former happiness. She moved slowly towards the door, paused, went on, and paused again. How silent, how forsaken172, how forlorn did the chateau appear! Trembling to enter it, yet blaming herself for delaying what she could not avoid, she, at length, passed into the hall; crossed it with a hurried step, as if afraid to look round, and opened the door of that room, which she was wont to call her own. The gloom of evening gave solemnity to its silent and deserted air. The chairs, the tables, every article of furniture, so familiar to her in happier times, spoke eloquently173 to her heart. She seated herself, without immediately observing it, in a window, which opened upon the garden, and where St. Aubert had often sat with her, watching the sun retire from the rich and extensive prospect174, that appeared beyond the groves175.
Having indulged her tears for some time, she became more composed; and, when Theresa, after seeing the baggage deposited in her lady’s room, again appeared, she had so far recovered her spirits, as to be able to converse176 with her.
‘I have made up the green bed for you, ma’amselle,’ said Theresa, as she set the coffee upon the table. ‘I thought you would like it better than your own now; but I little thought this day month, that you would come back alone. A-well-a-day! the news almost broke my heart, when it did come. Who would have believed, that my poor master, when he went from home, would never return again!’ Emily hid her face with her handkerchief, and waved her hand.
‘Do taste the coffee,’ said Theresa. ‘My dear young lady, be comforted — we must all die. My dear master is a saint above.’ Emily took the handkerchief from her face, and raised her eyes full of tears towards heaven; soon after she dried them, and, in a calm, but tremulous voice, began to enquire concerning some of her late father’s pensioners177.
‘Alas-a-day!’ said Theresa, as she poured out the coffee, and handed it to her mistress, ‘all that could come, have been here every day to enquire after you and my master.’ She then proceeded to tell, that some were dead whom they had left well; and others, who were ill, had recovered. ‘And see, ma’amselle,’ added Theresa, ‘there is old Mary coming up the garden now; she has looked every day these three years as if she would die, yet she is alive still. She has seen the chaise at the door, and knows you are come home.’
The sight of this poor old woman would have been too much for Emily, and she begged Theresa would go and tell her, that she was too ill to see any person that night. ‘To-morrow I shall be better, perhaps; but give her this token of my remembrance.’
Emily sat for some time, given up to sorrow. Not an object, on which her eye glanced, but awakened some remembrance, that led immediately to the subject of her grief. Her favourite plants, which St. Aubert had taught her to nurse; the little drawings, that adorned178 the room, which his taste had instructed her to execute; the books, that he had selected for her use, and which they had read together; her musical instruments, whose sounds he loved so well, and which he sometimes awakened himself — every object gave new force to sorrow. At length, she roused herself from this melancholy indulgence, and, summoning all her resolution, stepped forward to go into those forlorn rooms, which, though she dreaded to enter, she knew would yet more powerfully affect her, if she delayed to visit them.
Having passed through the green-house, her courage for a moment forsook her, when she opened the door of the library; and, perhaps, the shade, which evening and the foliage of the trees near the windows threw across the room, heightened the solemnity of her feelings on entering that apartment, where every thing spoke of her father. There was an arm chair, in which he used to sit; she shrunk when she observed it, for she had so often seen him seated there, and the idea of him rose so distinctly to her mind, that she almost fancied she saw him before her. But she checked the illusions of a distempered imagination, though she could not subdue179 a certain degree of awe, which now mingled with her emotions. She walked slowly to the chair, and seated herself in it; there was a reading-desk before it, on which lay a book open, as it had been left by her father. It was some moments before she recovered courage enough to examine it; and, when she looked at the open page, she immediately recollected180, that St. Aubert, on the evening before his departure from the chateau, had read to her some passages from this his favourite author. The circumstance now affected her extremely; she looked at the page, wept, and looked again. To her the book appeared sacred and invaluable181, and she would not have moved it, or closed the page, which he had left open, for the treasures of the Indies. Still she sat before the desk, and could not resolve to quit it, though the increasing gloom, and the profound silence of the apartment, revived a degree of painful awe. Her thoughts dwelt on the probable state of departed spirits, and she remembered the affecting conversation, which had passed between St. Aubert and La Voisin, on the night preceding his death.
As she mused182 she saw the door slowly open, and a rustling183 sound in a remote part of the room startled her. Through the dusk she thought she perceived something move. The subject she had been considering, and the present tone of her spirits, which made her imagination respond to every impression of her senses, gave her a sudden terror of something supernatural. She sat for a moment motionless, and then, her dissipated reason returning, ‘What should I fear?’ said she. ‘If the spirits of those we love ever return to us, it is in kindness.’
The silence, which again reigned, made her ashamed of her late fears, and she believed, that her imagination had deluded184 her, or that she had heard one of those unaccountable noises, which sometimes occur in old houses. The same sound, however, returned; and, distinguishing something moving towards her, and in the next instant press beside her into the chair, she shrieked185; but her fleeting186 senses were instantly recalled, on perceiving that it was Manchon who sat by her, and who now licked her hands affectionately.
Perceiving her spirits unequal to the task she had assigned herself of visiting the deserted rooms of the chateau this night, when she left the library, she walked into the garden, and down to the terrace, that overhung the river. The sun was now set; but, under the dark branches of the almond trees, was seen the saffron glow of the west, spreading beyond the twilight of middle air. The bat flitted silently by; and, now and then, the mourning note of the nightingale was heard. The circumstances of the hour brought to her recollection some lines, which she had once heard St. Aubert recite on this very spot, and she had now a melancholy pleasure in repeating them.
SONNET187
Now the bat circles on the breeze of eve,
That creeps, in shudd’ring fits, along the wave,
And trembles ‘mid the woods, and through the cave
Whose lonely sighs the wanderer deceive;
For oft, when melancholy charms his mind,
He thinks the Spirit of the rock he hears,
Nor listens, but with sweetly-thrilling fears,
To the low, mystic murmurs188 of the wind!
Now the bat circles, and the twilight-dew
Falls silent round, and, o’er the mountain-cliff,
The gleaming wave, and far-discover’d skiff,
Spreads the gray veil of soft, harmonious189 hue190.
So falls o’er Grief the dew of pity’s tear
Dimming her lonely visions of despair.
Emily, wandering on, came to St. Aubert’s favourite plane-tree, where so often, at this hour, they had sat beneath the shade together, and with her dear mother so often had conversed191 on the subject of a future state. How often, too, had her father expressed the comfort he derived192 from believing, that they should meet in another world! Emily, overcome by these recollections, left the plane-tree, and, as she leaned pensively193 on the wall of the terrace, she observed a group of peasants dancing gaily194 on the banks of the Garonne, which spread in broad expanse below, and reflected the evening light. What a contrast they formed to the desolate, unhappy Emily! They were gay and debonnaire, as they were wont to be when she, too, was gay — when St. Aubert used to listen to their merry music, with a countenance beaming pleasure and benevolence. Emily, having looked for a moment on this sprightly195 band, turned away, unable to bear the remembrances it excited; but where, alas! could she turn, and not meet new objects to give acuteness to grief?
As she walked slowly towards the house, she was met by Theresa. ‘Dear ma’amselle,’ said she, ‘I have been seeking you up and down this half hour, and was afraid some accident had happened to you. How can you like to wander about so in this night air! Do come into the house. Think what my poor master would have said, if he could see you. I am sure, when my dear lady died, no gentleman could take it more to heart than he did, yet you know he seldom shed a tear.’
‘Pray, Theresa, cease,’ said Emily, wishing to interrupt this ill- judged, but well-meaning harangue196; Theresa’s loquacity197, however, was not to be silenced so easily. ‘And when you used to grieve so,’ she added, ‘he often told you how wrong it was — for that my mistress was happy. And, if she was happy, I am sure he is so too; for the prayers of the poor, they say, reach heaven.’ During this speech, Emily had walked silently into the chateau, and Theresa lighted her across the hall into the common sitting parlour, where she had laid the cloth, with one solitary knife and fork, for supper. Emily was in the room before she perceived that it was not her own apartment, but she checked the emotion which inclined her to leave it, and seated herself quietly by the little supper table. Her father’s hat hung upon the opposite wall; while she gazed at it, a faintness came over her. Theresa looked at her, and then at the object, on which her eyes were settled, and went to remove it; but Emily waved her hand —‘No,’ said she, ‘let it remain. I am going to my chamber.’ ‘Nay, ma’amselle, supper is ready.’ ‘I cannot take it,’ replied Emily, ‘I will go to my room, and try to sleep. Tomorrow I shall be better.’
‘This is poor doings!’ said Theresa. ‘Dear lady! do take some food! I have dressed a pheasant, and a fine one it is. Old Monsieur Barreaux sent it this morning, for I saw him yesterday, and told him you were coming. And I know nobody that seemed more concerned, when he heard the sad news, then he.’
‘Did he?’ said Emily, in a tender voice, while she felt her poor heart warmed for a moment by a ray of sympathy.
At length, her spirits were entirely overcome, and she retired to her room.
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1
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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4
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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5
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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6
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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7
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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8
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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10
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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12
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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13
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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14
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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15
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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16
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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19
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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20
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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23
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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24
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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25
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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28
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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32
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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33
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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34
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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35
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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36
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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37
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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38
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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39
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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40
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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41
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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42
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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43
effulgent
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| adj.光辉的；灿烂的 | |
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44
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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45
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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46
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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47
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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48
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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49
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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50
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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51
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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52
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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53
enervated
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| adj.衰弱的，无力的v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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55
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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56
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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57
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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58
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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59
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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60
benignity
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| n.仁慈 | |
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61
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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62
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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66
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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67
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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69
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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70
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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71
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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72
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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73
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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74
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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76
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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79
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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80
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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82
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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83
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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84
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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85
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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86
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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87
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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88
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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89
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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92
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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93
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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94
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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95
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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99
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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100
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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101
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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103
anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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104
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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105
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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106
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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107
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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108
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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109
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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110
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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111
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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112
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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113
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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114
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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115
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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116
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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117
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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118
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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119
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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120
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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121
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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122
abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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123
culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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124
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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125
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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126
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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127
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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128
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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129
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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131
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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132
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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133
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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134
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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135
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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136
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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137
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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138
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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139
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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140
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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141
innocency
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| 无罪，洁白 | |
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142
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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143
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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144
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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145
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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146
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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147
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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148
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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150
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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151
requiem
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| n.安魂曲，安灵曲 | |
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152
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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153
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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154
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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155
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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156
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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157
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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158
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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159
cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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160
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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161
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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162
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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163
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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164
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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165
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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166
fawned
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| v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的过去式和过去分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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167
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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168
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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169
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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170
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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171
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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172
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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173
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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174
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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175
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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176
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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177
pensioners
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| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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178
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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179
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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180
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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181
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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182
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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183
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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184
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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185
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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186
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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187
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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188
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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189
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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190
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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191
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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192
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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193
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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194
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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195
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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196
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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197
loquacity
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| n.多话，饶舌 | |
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