Several of them
rose with alacrity, and, offering any service in their power, followed
Emily, who seemed to move on the wind, as fast as they could towards
the road. When she reached the carriage she found St. Aubert restored to
animation. On the recovery of his senses, having heard from Michael
whither his daughter was gone, anxiety for her overcame every regard
for himself, and he had sent him in search of her. He was, however,
still languid, and, perceiving himself unable to travel much farther,
he renewed his enquiries for an inn, and concerning the château in the
woods. “The château cannot accommodate you, sir,” said a venerable
peasant who had followed Emily from the woods, “it is scarcely
inhabited; but, if you will do me the honour to visit my cottage, you
shall be welcome to the best bed it affords.”

St. Aubert was himself a Frenchman; he therefore was not surprised at
French courtesy; but, ill as he was, he felt the value of the offer
enhanced by the manner which accompanied it. He had too much delicacy
to apologise, or to appear to hesitate about availing himself of the
peasant’s hospitality, but immediately accepted it with the same
frankness with which it was offered. The carriage again moved slowly on; Michael following the peasants up
the lane, which Emily had just quitted, till they came to the moonlight
glade. St. Aubert’s spirits were so far restored by the courtesy of his
host, and the near prospect of repose, that he looked with a sweet
complacency upon the moonlight scene, surrounded by the shadowy woods,
through which, here and there, an opening admitted the streaming
splendour, discovering a cottage, or a sparkling rivulet. He listened,
with no painful emotion, to the merry notes of the guitar and
tamborine; and, though tears came to his eyes, when he saw the
_debonnaire_ dance of the peasants, they were not merely tears of
mournful regret. With Emily it was otherwise; immediate terror for her
father had now subsided into a gentle melancholy, which every note of
joy, by awakening comparison, served to heighten. The dance ceased on the approach of the carriage, which was a
phenomenon in these sequestered woods, and the peasantry flocked round
it with eager curiosity. On learning that it brought a sick stranger,
several girls ran across the turf, and returned with wine and baskets
of grapes, which they presented to the travellers, each with kind
contention pressing for a preference. At length, the carriage stopped
at a neat cottage, and his venerable conductor, having assisted St.
Aubert to alight, led him and Emily to a small inner room, illuminated
only by moonbeams, which the open casement admitted. St. Aubert,
rejoicing in rest, seated himself in an arm-chair, and his senses were
refreshed by the cool and balmy air, that lightly waved the embowering
honeysuckles, and wafted their sweet breath into the apartment. His
host, who was called La Voisin, quitted the room, but soon returned
with fruits, cream, and all the pastoral luxury his cottage afforded;
having set down which, with a smile of unfeigned welcome, he retired
behind the chair of his guest. St. Aubert insisted on his taking a seat
at the table, and, when the fruit had allayed the fever of his palate,
and he found himself somewhat revived, he began to converse with his
host, who communicated several particulars concerning himself and his
family, which were interesting, because they were spoken from the
heart, and delineated a picture of the sweet courtesies of family
kindness. Emily sat by her father, holding his hand, and, while she
listened to the old man, her heart swelled with the affectionate
sympathy he described, and her tears fell to the mournful
consideration, that death would probably soon deprive her of the
dearest blessing she then possessed. The soft moonlight of an autumnal
evening, and the distant music, which now sounded a plaintive strain,
aided the melancholy of her mind. The old man continued to talk of his
family, and St. Aubert remained silent. “I have only one daughter
living,” said La Voisin, “but she is happily married, and is everything
to me. When I lost my wife,” he added with a sigh, “I came to live with
Agnes, and her family; she has several children, who are all dancing on
the green yonder, as merry as grasshoppers—and long may they be so! I
hope to die among them, monsieur. I am old now, and cannot expect to
live long, but there is some comfort in dying surrounded by one’s
children.”

“My good friend,” said St. Aubert, while his voice trembled, “I hope
you will long live surrounded by them.”

“Ah, sir! at my age I must not expect that!” replied the old man, and
he paused: “I can scarcely wish it,” he resumed, “for I trust that
whenever I die I shall go to heaven, where my poor wife is gone before
me. I can sometimes almost fancy I see her of a still moonlight night,
walking among these shades she loved so well. Do you believe, monsieur,
that we shall be permitted to revisit the earth, after we have quitted
the body?”

Emily could no longer stifle the anguish of her heart; her tears fell
fast upon her father’s hand, which she yet held. He made an effort to
speak, and at length said in a low voice, “I hope we shall be permitted
to look down on those we have left on the earth, but I can only hope
it. Futurity is much veiled from our eyes, and faith and hope are our
only guides concerning it. We are not enjoined to believe, that
disembodied spirits watch over the friends they have loved, but we may
innocently hope it. It is a hope which I will never resign,” continued
he, while he wiped the tears from his daughter’s eyes, “it will sweeten
the bitter moments of death!” Tears fell slowly on his cheeks; La
Voisin wept too, and there was a pause of silence. Then, La Voisin,
renewing the subject, said, “But you believe, sir, that we shall meet
in another world the relations we have loved in this; I must believe
this.” “Then do believe it,” replied St. Aubert, “severe, indeed, would
be the pangs of separation, if we believed it to be eternal. Look up,
my dear Emily, we shall meet again!” He lifted his eyes towards heaven,
and a gleam of moonlight, which fell upon his countenance, discovered
peace and resignation, stealing on the lines of sorrow. La Voisin felt that he had pursued the subject too far, and he dropped
it, saying, “We are in darkness, I forgot to bring a light.”

“No,” said St. Aubert, “this is a light I love. Sit down, my good
friend. Emily, my love, I find myself better than I have been all day;
this air refreshes me. I can enjoy this tranquil hour, and that music,
which floats so sweetly at a distance. Let me see you smile. Who
touches that guitar so tastefully? are there two instruments, or is it
an echo I hear?”

“It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy.