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
moon-beams, 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
moon-light 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 every thing 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 moon-light 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 moon-light, which fell upon his countenance, discovered peace and
resignation, stealing on the lines of sorrow.