if you are permitted to look down upon your child,
it will please you to see, that she remembers, and endeavours to
practise, the precepts you have given her.”

A turn on the road now allowed a nearer view of the château, the
chimneys, tipped with light, rising from behind St. Aubert’s favourite
oaks, whose foliage partly concealed the lower part of the building. Emily could not suppress a heavy sigh. “This, too, was his favourite
hour,” said she, as she gazed upon the long evening shadows, stretched
athwart the landscape. “How deep the repose, how lovely the scene! lovely and tranquil as in former days!”

Again she resisted the pressure of sorrow, till her ear caught the gay
melody of the dance, which she had so often listened to, as she walked
with St. Aubert, on the margin of the Garonne, when all her fortitude
forsook her, and she continued to weep, till the carriage stopped at
the little gate, that opened upon what was now her own territory. She
raised her eyes on the sudden stopping of the carriage, and saw her
father’s old housekeeper coming to open the gate. Manchon also came
running, and barking before her; and when his young mistress alighted,
fawned, and played round her, gasping with joy. “Dear ma’amselle!” said Theresa, and paused, and looked as if she would
have offered something of condolement to Emily, whose tears now
prevented reply. The dog still fawned and ran round her, and then flew
towards the carriage, with a short quick bark. “Ah, ma’amselle!—my poor
master!” said Theresa, whose feelings were more awakened than her
delicacy, “Manchon’s gone to look for him.” Emily sobbed aloud; and, on
looking towards the carriage, which still stood with the door open, saw
the animal spring into it, and instantly leap out, and then with his
nose on the ground run round the horses. “Don’t cry so, ma’amselle,” said Theresa, “it breaks my heart to see
you.” The dog now came running to Emily, then returned to the carriage,
and then back again to her, whining and discontented. “Poor rogue!”
said Theresa, “thou hast lost thy master, thou mayst well cry! But
come, my dear young lady, be comforted. What shall I get to refresh
you?” Emily gave her hand to the old servant, and tried to restrain her
grief, while she made some kind enquiries concerning her health. But
she still lingered in the walk which led to the château, for within was
no person to meet her with the kiss of affection; her own heart no
longer palpitated with impatient joy to meet again the well-known
smile, and she dreaded to see objects, which would recall the full
remembrance of her former happiness. She moved slowly towards the door,
paused, went on, and paused again. How silent, how forsaken, how
forlorn did the château appear! Trembling to enter it, yet blaming
herself for delaying what she could not avoid, she, at length, passed
into the hall; crossed it with a hurried step, as if afraid to look
round, and opened the door of that room, which she was wont to call her
own. The gloom of evening gave solemnity to its silent and deserted
air. The chairs, the tables, every article of furniture, so familiar to
her in happier times, spoke eloquently to her heart. She seated
herself, without immediately observing it, in a window, which opened
upon the garden, and where St. Aubert had often sat with her, watching
the sun retire from the rich and extensive prospect, that appeared
beyond the groves. Having indulged her tears for some time, she became more composed; and,
when Theresa, after seeing the baggage deposited in her lady’s room,
again appeared, she had so far recovered her spirits, as to be able to
converse with her. “I have made up the green bed for you, ma’amselle,” said Theresa, as
she set the coffee upon the table. “I thought you would like it better
than your own now; but I little thought this day month, that you would
come back alone. A-well-a-day! the news almost broke my heart, when it
did come. Who would have believed, that my poor master, when he went
from home, would never return again!” Emily hid her face with her
handkerchief, and waved her hand. “Do taste the coffee,” said Theresa. “My dear young lady, be
comforted—we must all die. My dear master is a saint above.” Emily took
the handkerchief from her face, and raised her eyes full of tears
towards heaven; soon after she dried them, and, in a calm, but
tremulous voice, began to enquire concerning some of her late father’s
pensioners. “Alas-a-day!” said Theresa, as she poured out the coffee, and handed it
to her mistress, “all that could come, have been here every day to
enquire after you and my master.” She then proceeded to tell, that some
were dead whom they had left well; and others, who were ill, had
recovered. “And see, ma’amselle,” added Theresa, “there is old Mary
coming up the garden now; she has looked every day these three years as
if she would die, yet she is alive still. She has seen the chaise at
the door, and knows you are come home.”

The sight of this poor old woman would have been too much for Emily,
and she begged Theresa would go and tell her, that she was too ill to
see any person that night. “Tomorrow I shall be better, perhaps; but
give her this token of my remembrance.”

Emily sat for some time, given up to sorrow. Not an object, on which
her eye glanced, but awakened some remembrance, that led immediately to
the subject of her grief. Her favourite plants, which St. Aubert had
taught her to nurse; the little drawings, that adorned the room, which
his taste had instructed her to execute; the books, that he had
selected for her use, and which they had read together; her musical
instruments, whose sounds he loved so well, and which he sometimes
awakened himself—every object gave new force to sorrow. At length, she
roused herself from this melancholy indulgence, and, summoning all her
resolution, stepped forward to go into those forlorn rooms, which,
though she dreaded to enter, she knew would yet more powerfully affect
her, if she delayed to visit them. Having passed through the green-house, her courage for a moment forsook
her, when she opened the door of the library; and, perhaps, the shade,
which evening and the foliage of the trees near the windows threw
across the room, heightened the solemnity of her feelings on entering
that apartment, where everything spoke of her father. There was an arm
chair, in which he used to sit; she shrunk when she observed it, for
she had so often seen him seated there, and the idea of him rose so
distinctly to her mind, that she almost fancied she saw him before her. But she checked the illusions of a distempered imagination, though she
could not subdue a certain degree of awe, which now mingled with her
emotions. She walked slowly to the chair, and seated herself in it;
there was a reading-desk before it, on which lay a book open, as it had
been left by her father.