MASON


Emily, some time after her return to La Vallée, received letters from
her aunt, Madame Cheron, in which, after some common-place condolement
and advice, she invited her to Thoulouse, and added, that, as her late
brother had entrusted Emily’s _education_ to her, she should consider
herself bound to overlook her conduct. Emily, at this time, wished only
to remain at La Vallée, in the scenes of her early happiness, now
rendered infinitely dear to her, as the late residence of those, whom
she had lost for ever, where she could weep unobserved, retrace their
steps, and remember each minute particular of their manners. But she
was equally anxious to avoid the displeasure of Madame Cheron. Though her affection would not suffer her to question, even a moment,
the propriety of St. Aubert’s conduct in appointing Madame Cheron for
her guardian, she was sensible, that this step had made her happiness
depend, in a great degree, on the humour of her aunt. In her reply, she
begged permission to remain, at present, at La Vallée, mentioning the
extreme dejection of her spirits, and the necessity she felt for quiet
and retirement to restore them. These she knew were not to be found at
Madame Cheron’s, whose inclinations led her into a life of dissipation,
which her ample fortune encouraged; and, having given her answer, she
felt somewhat more at ease. In the first days of her affliction, she was visited by Monsieur
Barreaux, a sincere mourner for St. Aubert. “I may well lament my
friend,” said he, “for I shall never meet with his resemblance. If I
could have found such a man in what is called society, I should not
have left it.”

M. Barreaux’s admiration of her father endeared him extremely to Emily,
whose heart found almost its first relief in conversing of her parents,
with a man, whom she so much revered, and who, though with such an
ungracious appearance, possessed to much goodness of heart and delicacy
of mind. Several weeks passed away in quiet retirement, and Emily’s affliction
began to soften into melancholy. She could bear to read the books she
had before read with her father; to sit in his chair in the library—to
watch the flowers his hand had planted—to awaken the tones of that
instrument his fingers had pressed, and sometimes even to play his
favourite air. When her mind had recovered from the first shock of affliction,
perceiving the danger of yielding to indolence, and that activity alone
could restore its tone, she scrupulously endeavoured to pass all her
hours in employment. And it was now that she understood the full value
of the education she had received from St. Aubert, for in cultivating
her understanding he had secured her an asylum from indolence, without
recourse to dissipation, and rich and varied amusement and information,
independent of the society, from which her situation secluded her. Nor
were the good effects of this education confined to selfish advantages,
since, St. Aubert having nourished every amiable quality of her heart,
it now expanded in benevolence to all around her, and taught her, when
she could not remove the misfortunes of others, at least to soften them
by sympathy and tenderness;—a benevolence that taught her to feel for
all, that could suffer. Madame Cheron returned no answer to Emily’s letter, who began to hope,
that she should be permitted to remain some time longer in her
retirement, and her mind had now so far recovered its strength, that
she ventured to view the scenes, which most powerfully recalled the
images of past times. Among these was the fishing-house; and, to
indulge still more the affectionate melancholy of the visit, she took
thither her lute, that she might again hear there the tones, to which
St. Aubert and her mother had so often delighted to listen. She went
alone, and at that still hour of the evening which is so soothing to
fancy and to grief. The last time she had been here she was in company
with Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert, a few days preceding that, on
which the latter was seized with a fatal illness. Now, when Emily again
entered the woods, that surrounded the building, they awakened so
forcibly the memory of former times, that her resolution yielded for a
moment to excess of grief. She stopped, leaned for support against a
tree, and wept for some minutes, before she had recovered herself
sufficiently to proceed. The little path, that led to the building, was
overgrown with grass and the flowers which St. Aubert had scattered
carelessly along the border were almost choked with weeds—the tall
thistle—the fox-glove, and the nettle. She often paused to look on the
desolate spot, now so silent and forsaken, and when, with a trembling
hand, she opened the door of the fishing-house, “Ah!” said she,
“everything—everything remains as when I left it last—left it with
those who never must return!” She went to a window, that overhung the
rivulet, and, leaning over it, with her eyes fixed on the current, was
soon lost in melancholy reverie. The lute she had brought lay forgotten
beside her; the mournful sighing of the breeze, as it waved the high
pines above, and its softer whispers among the osiers, that bowed upon
the banks below, was a kind of music more in unison with her feelings. It did not vibrate on the chords of unhappy memory, but was soothing to
the heart as the voice of Pity. She continued to muse, unconscious of
the gloom of evening, and that the sun’s last light trembled on the
heights above, and would probably have remained so much longer, if a
sudden footstep, without the building, had not alarmed her attention,
and first made her recollect that she was unprotected. In the next
moment, a door opened, and a stranger appeared, who stopped on
perceiving Emily, and then began to apologise for his intrusion. But
Emily, at the sound of his voice, lost her fear in a stronger emotion:
its tones were familiar to her ear, and, though she could not readily
distinguish through the dusk the features of the person who spoke, she
felt a remembrance too strong to be distrusted. He repeated his apology, and Emily then said something in reply, when
the stranger eagerly advancing, exclaimed, “Good God! can it be—surely
I am not mistaken—ma’amselle St. Aubert?—is it not?”

“It is indeed,” said Emily, who was confirmed in her first conjecture,
for she now distinguished the countenance of Valancourt, lighted up
with still more than its usual animation. A thousand painful
recollections crowded to her mind, and the effort, which she made to
support herself, only served to increase her agitation. Valancourt,
meanwhile, having enquired anxiously after her health, and expressed
his hopes, that M. St. Aubert had found benefit from travelling,
learned from the flood of tears, which she could no longer repress, the
fatal truth.