As she drew near the chateau, these melancholy memorials of past times
multiplied. At length, the chateau itself appeared, amid the glowing
beauty of St. Aubert's favourite landscape. This was an object, which
called for fortitude, not for tears; Emily dried hers, and prepared to
meet with calmness the trying moment of her return to that home, where
there was no longer a parent to welcome her. 'Yes,' said she, 'let me
not forget the lessons he has taught me! How often he has pointed out
the necessity of resisting even virtuous sorrow; how often we have
admired together the greatness of a mind, that can at once suffer and
reason! O my father! 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 chateau, 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 chateau, 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
chateau 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.