It was some moments before she recovered
courage enough to examine it; and, when she looked at the open page,
she immediately recollected, that St. Aubert, on the evening before his
departure from the château, had read to her some passages from this his
favourite author. The circumstance now affected her extremely; she
looked at the page, wept, and looked again. To her the book appeared
sacred and invaluable, and she would not have moved it, or closed the
page, which he had left open, for the treasures of the Indies. Still
she sat before the desk, and could not resolve to quit it, though the
increasing gloom, and the profound silence of the apartment, revived a
degree of painful awe. Her thoughts dwelt on the probable state of
departed spirits, and she remembered the affecting conversation, which
had passed between St. Aubert and La Voisin, on the night preceding his
death. As she mused she saw the door slowly open, and a rustling sound in a
remote part of the room startled her. Through the dusk she thought she
perceived something move. The subject she had been considering, and the
present tone of her spirits, which made her imagination respond to
every impression of her senses, gave her a sudden terror of something
supernatural. She sat for a moment motionless, and then, her dissipated
reason returning, “What should I fear?” said she. “If the spirits of
those we love ever return to us, it is in kindness.”

The silence, which again reigned, made her ashamed of her late fears,
and she believed, that her imagination had deluded her, or that she had
heard one of those unaccountable noises, which sometimes occur in old
houses. The same sound, however, returned; and, distinguishing
something moving towards her, and in the next instant press beside her
into the chair, she shrieked; but her fleeting senses were instantly
recalled, on perceiving that it was Manchon who sat by her, and who now
licked her hands affectionately. Perceiving her spirits unequal to the task she had assigned herself of
visiting the deserted rooms of the château this night, when she left
the library, she walked into the garden, and down to the terrace, that
overhung the river. The sun was now set; but, under the dark branches
of the almond trees, was seen the saffron glow of the west, spreading
beyond the twilight of middle air. The bat flitted silently by; and,
now and then, the mourning note of the nightingale was heard. The
circumstances of the hour brought to her recollection some lines, which
she had once heard St. Aubert recite on this very spot, and she had now
a melancholy pleasure in repeating them. SONNET

Now the bat circles on the breeze of eve,
    That creeps, in shudd’ring fits, along the wave,
    And trembles ’mid the woods, and through the cave
Whose lonely sighs the wanderer deceive;

For oft, when melancholy charms his mind,
    He thinks the Spirit of the rock he hears,
    Nor listens, but with sweetly-thrilling fears,
To the low, mystic murmurs of the wind! Now the bat circles, and the twilight-dew
    Falls silent round, and, o’er the mountain-cliff,
    The gleaming wave, and far-discover’d skiff,
Spreads the grey veil of soft, harmonious hue. So falls o’er Grief the dew of pity’s tear
Dimming her lonely visions of despair. Emily, wandering on, came to St. Aubert’s favourite plane-tree, where
so often, at this hour, they had sat beneath the shade together, and
with her dear mother so often had conversed on the subject of a future
state. How often, too, had her father expressed the comfort he derived
from believing, that they should meet in another world! Emily, overcome
by these recollections, left the plane-tree, and, as she leaned
pensively on the wall of the terrace, she observed a group of peasants
dancing gaily on the banks of the Garonne, which spread in broad
expanse below, and reflected the evening light. What a contrast they
formed to the desolate, unhappy Emily! They were gay and _debonnaire_,
as they were wont to be when she, too, was gay—when St. Aubert used to
listen to their merry music, with a countenance beaming pleasure and
benevolence. Emily, having looked for a moment on this sprightly band,
turned away, unable to bear the remembrances it excited; but where,
alas! could she turn, and not meet new objects to give acuteness to
grief? As she walked slowly towards the house, she was met by Theresa. “Dear
ma’amselle,” said she, “I have been seeking you up and down this half
hour, and was afraid some accident had happened to you. How can you
like to wander about so in this night air! Do come into the house. Think what my poor master would have said, if he could see you. I am
sure, when my dear lady died, no gentleman could take it more to heart
than he did, yet you know he seldom shed a tear.”

“Pray, Theresa, cease,” said Emily, wishing to interrupt this
ill-judged, but well-meaning harangue; Theresa’s loquacity, however,
was not to be silenced so easily. “And when you used to grieve so,” she
added, “he often told you how wrong it was—for that my mistress was
happy. And, if she was happy, I am sure he is so too; for the prayers
of the poor, they say, reach heaven.” During this speech, Emily had
walked silently into the château, and Theresa lighted her across the
hall into the common sitting parlour, where she had laid the cloth,
with one solitary knife and fork, for supper. Emily was in the room
before she perceived that it was not her own apartment, but she checked
the emotion which inclined her to leave it, and seated herself quietly
by the little supper table. Her father’s hat hung upon the opposite
wall; while she gazed at it, a faintness came over her. Theresa looked
at her, and then at the object, on which her eyes were settled, and
went to remove it; but Emily waved her hand—“No,” said she, “let it
remain. I am going to my chamber.” “Nay, ma’amselle, supper is ready.”
“I cannot take it,” replied Emily, “I will go to my room, and try to
sleep. Tomorrow I shall be better.”

“This is poor doings!” said Theresa. “Dear lady! do take some food! I
have dressed a pheasant, and a fine one it is. Old Monsieur Barreaux
sent it this morning, for I saw him yesterday, and told him you were
coming. And I know nobody that seemed more concerned, when he heard the
sad news, then he.”

“Did he?” said Emily, in a tender voice, while she felt her poor heart
warmed for a moment by a ray of sympathy. At length, her spirits were entirely overcome, and she retired to her
room. CHAPTER IX

Can Music’s voice, can Beauty’s eye,
Can Painting’s glowing hand supply
A charm so suited to my mind,
As blows this hollow gust of wind? As drops this little weeping rill,
Soft tinkling down the moss-grown hill;
While, through the west, where sinks the crimson day,
Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners grey?