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 can free. 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 ray,
Glanc’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 retain
The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene,
Uncertain if beheld. THOMSON. St. Aubert continued silent till he reached the château, 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 reanimate
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 a while, 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 word
Would harrow up thy soul. SHAKESPEARE


Madame St. Aubert was interred in the neighbouring village church; her
husband and daughter attended her to the grave, followed by a long
train of the peasantry, who were sincere mourners of this excellent
woman. On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert shut himself in his chamber. When he came forth, it was with a serene countenance, though pale in
sorrow. He gave orders that his family should attend him. Emily only
was absent; who, overcome with the scene she had just witnessed, had
retired to her closet to weep alone. St. Aubert followed her thither:
he took her hand in silence, while she continued to weep; and it was
some moments before he could so far command his voice as to speak.