It
trembled while he said, “My Emily, I am going to prayers with my
family; you will join us. We must ask support from above. Where else
ought we to seek it—where else can we find it?”

Emily checked her tears, and followed her father to the parlour, where,
the servants being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low and solemn
voice, the evening service, and added a prayer for the soul of the
departed. During this, his voice often faltered, his tears fell upon
the book, and at length he paused. But the sublime emotions of pure
devotion gradually elevated his views above this world, and finally
brought comfort to his heart. When the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn, he
tenderly kissed Emily, and said, “I have endeavoured to teach you, from
your earliest youth, the duty of self-command; I have pointed out to
you the great importance of it through life, not only as it preserves
us in the various and dangerous temptations that call us from rectitude
and virtue, but as it limits the indulgences which are termed virtuous,
yet which, extended beyond a certain boundary, are vicious, for their
consequence is evil. All excess is vicious; even that sorrow, which is
amiable in its origin, becomes a selfish and unjust passion, if
indulged at the expence of our duties—by our duties I mean what we owe
to ourselves, as well as to others. The indulgence of excessive grief
enervates the mind, and almost incapacitates it for again partaking of
those various innocent enjoyments which a benevolent God designed to be
the sunshine of our lives. My dear Emily, recollect and practise the
precepts I have so often given you, and which your own experience has
so often shown you to be wise. “Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a commonplace
remark, but let reason _therefore_ restrain sorrow. I would not
annihilate your feelings, my child, I would only teach you to command
them; for whatever may be the evils resulting from a too susceptible
heart, nothing can be hoped from an insensible one; that, on the other
hand, is all vice—vice, of which the deformity is not softened, or the
effect consoled for, by any semblance or possibility of good. You know
my sufferings, and are, therefore, convinced that mine are not the
light words which, on these occasions, are so often repeated to destroy
even the sources of honest emotion, or which merely display the selfish
ostentation of a false philosophy. I will show my Emily, that I can
practise what I advise. I have said thus much, because I cannot bear to
see you wasting in useless sorrow, for want of that resistance which is
due from mind; and I have not said it till now, because there is a
period when all reasoning must yield to nature; that is past: and
another, when excessive indulgence, having sunk into habit, weighs down
the elasticity of the spirits so as to render conquest nearly
impossible; this is to come. You, my Emily, will show that you are
willing to avoid it.”

Emily smiled through her tears upon her father: “Dear sir,” said she,
and her voice trembled; she would have added, “I will show myself
worthy of being your daughter;” but a mingled emotion of gratitude,
affection, and grief overcame her. St. Aubert suffered her to weep
without interruption, and then began to talk on common topics. The first person who came to condole with St. Aubert was a M. Barreaux,
an austere and seemingly unfeeling man. A taste for botany had
introduced them to each other, for they had frequently met in their
wanderings among the mountains. M. Barreaux had retired from the world,
and almost from society, to live in a pleasant château, on the skirts
of the woods, near La Vallée. He also had been disappointed in his
opinion of mankind; but he did not, like St. Aubert, pity and mourn for
them; he felt more indignation at their vices, than compassion for
their weaknesses. St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to see him; for, though he had often
pressed him to come to the château, he had never till now accepted the
invitation; and now he came without ceremony or reserve, entering the
parlour as an old friend. The claims of misfortune appeared to have
softened down all the ruggedness and prejudices of his heart. St.
Aubert unhappy, seemed to be the sole idea that occupied his mind. It
was in manners, more than in words, that he appeared to sympathise with
his friends: he spoke little on the subject of their grief; but the
minute attention he gave them, and the modulated voice, and softened
look that accompanied it, came from his heart, and spoke to theirs. At this melancholy period St. Aubert was likewise visited by Madame
Cheron, his only surviving sister, who had been some years a widow, and
now resided on her own estate near Thoulouse. The intercourse between
them had not been very frequent. In her condolements, words were not
wanting; she understood not the magic of the look that speaks at once
to the soul, or the voice that sinks like balm to the heart: but she
assured St. Aubert that she sincerely sympathised with him, praised the
virtues of his late wife, and then offered what she considered to be
consolation. Emily wept unceasingly while she spoke; St. Aubert was
tranquil, listened to what she said in silence, and then turned the
discourse upon another subject. At parting she pressed him and her niece to make her an early visit. “Change of place will amuse you,” said she, “and it is wrong to give
way to grief.” St. Aubert acknowledged the truth of these words of
course; but, at the same time, felt more reluctant than ever to quit
the spot which his past happiness had consecrated. The presence of his
wife had sanctified every surrounding scene, and, each day, as it
gradually softened the acuteness of his suffering, assisted the tender
enchantment that bound him to home. But there were calls which must be complied with, and of this kind was
the visit he paid to his brother-in-law M. Quesnel. An affair of an
interesting nature made it necessary that he should delay this visit no
longer, and, wishing to rouse Emily from her dejection, he took her
with him to Epourville. As the carriage entered upon the forest that adjoined his paternal
domain, his eyes once more caught, between the chesnut avenue, the
turreted corners of the château. He sighed to think of what had passed
since he was last there, and that it was now the property of a man who
neither revered nor valued it. At length he entered the avenue, whose
lofty trees had so often delighted him when a boy, and whose melancholy
shade was now so congenial with the tone of his spirits. Every feature
of the edifice, distinguished by an air of heavy grandeur, appeared
successively between the branches of the trees—the broad turret, the
arched gateway that led into the courts, the drawbridge, and the dry
fossé which surrounded the whole.