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affections which we conceive for home.
The abbess repeated many kind assurances of regard at their
parting, and pressed her to return, if ever she should find her condition
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elsewhere unpleasant; many of the nuns also expressed unaffected regret
at her departure, and Emily left the convent with many tears, and
followed by sincere wishes for her happiness.
She had travelled several leagues, before the scenes of the country,
through which she passed, had power to rouse her for a moment from
the deep melancholy, into which she was sunk, and, when they did, it
was only to remind her, that, on her last view of them, St. Aubert was at
her side, and to call up to her remembrance the remarks he had delivered
on similar scenery. Thus, without any particular occurrence, passed the
day in languor and dejection. She slept that night in a town on the skirts
of Languedoc, and, on the following morning, entered Gascony.
Towards the close of this day, Emily came within view of the
plains in the neighbourhood of La Vallee, and the well-known objects of
former times began to press upon her notice, and with them
recollections, that awakened all her tenderness and grief. Often, while
she looked through her tears upon the wild grandeur of the Pyrenees,
now varied with the rich lights and shadows of evening, she
remembered, that, when last she saw them, her father partook with her of
the pleasure they inspired.
Suddenly some scene, which he had particularly pointed out to her,
would present itself, and the sick languor of despair would steal upon
her heart. There! she would exclaim, there are the very cliffs, there
the wood of pines, which he looked at with such delight, as we passed
this road together for the last time. There, too, under the crag of that
mountain, is the cottage, peeping from among the cedars, which he bade
me remember, and copy with my pencil. O my father, shall I never see
you more!
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,
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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.
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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.
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
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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
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