Having reached the
pavilion, she seated herself at the open lattice, and, while her eyes
settled on the distant mountains, that overlooked Gascony, still
gleaming on the horizon, though the sun had now left the plains below,
“Alas!” said she, “I return to your long-lost scenes, but shall meet no
more the parents, that were wont to render them delightful!—no more
shall see the smile of welcome, or hear the well-known voice of
fondness:—all will now be cold and silent in what was once my happy
home.”

Tears stole down her cheek, as the remembrance of what that home had
been, returned to her; but, after indulging her sorrow for some time,
she checked it, accusing herself of ingratitude in forgetting the
friends, that she possessed, while she lamented those that were
departed; and she, at length, left the pavilion and the terrace,
without having observed a shadow of Valancourt or of any other person. CHAPTER XI

Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade! Ah fields belov’d in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray’d,
A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales, that from ye blow,
A momentary bliss bestow,
As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to sooth. GRAY


On the following morning, Emily left Thoulouse at an early hour, and
reached La Vallée about sunset. With the melancholy she experienced on
the review of a place which had been the residence of her parents, and
the scene of her earliest delight, was mingled, after the first shock
had subsided, a tender and undescribable pleasure. For time had so far
blunted the acuteness of her grief, that she now courted every scene,
that awakened the memory of her friends; in every room, where she had
been accustomed to see them, they almost seemed to live again; and she
felt that La Vallée was still her happiest home. One of the first
apartments she visited, was that, which had been her father’s library,
and here she seated herself in his arm-chair, and, while she
contemplated, with tempered resignation, the picture of past times,
which her memory gave, the tears she shed could scarcely be called
those of grief. Soon after her arrival, she was surprised by a visit from the venerable
M. Barreaux, who came impatiently to welcome the daughter of his late
respected neighbour, to her long-deserted home. Emily was comforted by
the presence of an old friend, and they passed an interesting hour in
conversing of former times, and in relating some of the circumstances,
that had occurred to each, since they parted. The evening was so far advanced, when M. Barreaux left Emily, that she
could not visit the garden that night; but, on the following morning,
she traced its long-regretted scenes with fond impatience; and, as she
walked beneath the groves, which her father had planted, and where she
had so often sauntered in affectionate conversation with him, his
countenance, his smile, even the accents of his voice, returned with
exactness to her fancy, and her heart melted to the tender
recollections. This, too, was his favourite season of the year, at which they had
often together admired the rich and variegated tints of these woods and
the magical effect of autumnal lights upon the mountains; and now, the
view of these circumstances made memory eloquent. As she wandered
pensively on, she fancied the following address

TO AUTUMN

Sweet Autumn! how thy melancholy grace
Steals on my heart, as through these shades I wind! Sooth’d by thy breathing sigh, I fondly trace
Each lonely image of the pensive mind! Lov’d scenes, lov’d friends—long lost! around me rise,
And wake the melting thought, the tender tear! That tear, that thought, which more than mirth I prize—
Sweet as the gradual tint, that paints thy year! Thy farewell smile, with fond regret, I view,
Thy beaming lights, soft gliding o’er the woods;
Thy distant landscape, touch’d with yellow hue
While falls the lengthen’d gleam; thy winding floods,
Now veil’d in shade, save where the skiff’s white sails
Swell to the breeze, and catch thy streaming ray. But now, e’en now!—the partial vision fails,
And the wave smiles, as sweeps the cloud away! Emblem of life!—Thus checquer’d is its plan,
Thus joy succeeds to grief—thus smiles the varied man! One of Emily’s earliest enquiries, after her arrival at La Vallée, was
concerning Theresa, her father’s old servant, whom it may be remembered
that M. Quesnel had turned from the house when it was let, without any
provision. Understanding that she lived in a cottage at no great
distance, Emily walked thither, and, on approaching, was pleased to
see, that her habitation was pleasantly situated on a green slope,
sheltered by a tuft of oaks, and had an appearance of comfort and
extreme neatness. She found the old woman within, picking vine-stalks,
who, on perceiving her young mistress, was nearly overcome with joy. “Ah! my dear young lady!” said she, “I thought I should never see you
again in this world, when I heard you were gone to that outlandish
country. I have been hardly used, since you went; I little thought they
would have turned me out of my old master’s family in my old age!”

Emily lamented the circumstance, and then assured her, that she would
make her latter days comfortable, and expressed satisfaction, on seeing
her in so pleasant a habitation. Theresa thanked her with tears, adding, “Yes, mademoiselle, it is a
very comfortable home, thanks to the kind friend, who took me out of my
distress, when you were too far off to help me, and placed me here! I
little thought!—but no more of that—”

“And who was this kind friend?” said Emily: “whoever it was, I shall
consider him as mine also.”

“Ah, mademoiselle! that friend forbade me to blazon the good deed—I
must not say, who it was. But how you are altered since I saw you last! You look so pale now, and so thin, too; but then, there is my old
master’s smile! Yes, that will never leave you, any more than the
goodness, that used to make him smile. Alas-a-day! the poor lost a
friend indeed, when he died!”

Emily was affected by this mention of her father, which Theresa
observing, changed the subject. “I heard, mademoiselle,” said she,
“that Madame Cheron married a foreign gentleman, after all, and took
you abroad; how does she do?”

Emily now mentioned her death. “Alas!” said Theresa, “if she had not
been my master’s sister, I should never have loved her; she was always
so cross. But how does that dear young gentleman do, M. Valancourt? he
was a handsome youth, and a good one; is he well, mademoiselle?”

Emily was much agitated. “A blessing on him!” continued Theresa. “Ah, my dear young lady, you
need not look so shy; I know all about it. Do you think I do not know,
that he loves you? Why, when you were away, mademoiselle, he used to
come to the château and walk about it, so disconsolate!