Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!
Ah fields belov’d in vain!
Where once my careless childhood stray’d,
A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales, that from ye blow,
A momentary bliss bestow,
As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to sooth.
GRAY
On the following morning, Emily left Thoulouse at an early hour, and
reached La Vallée about sunset. With the melancholy she experienced on
the review of a place which had been the residence of her parents, and
the scene of her earliest delight, was mingled, after the first shock
had subsided, a tender and undescribable pleasure. For time had so far
blunted the acuteness of her grief, that she now courted every scene,
that awakened the memory of her friends; in every room, where she had
been accustomed to see them, they almost seemed to live again; and she
felt that La Vallée was still her happiest home. One of the first
apartments she visited, was that, which had been her father’s library,
and here she seated herself in his arm-chair, and, while she
contemplated, with tempered resignation, the picture of past times,
which her memory gave, the tears she shed could scarcely be called
those of grief.
Soon after her arrival, she was surprised by a visit from the venerable
M. Barreaux, who came impatiently to welcome the daughter of his late
respected neighbour, to her long-deserted home. Emily was comforted by
the presence of an old friend, and they passed an interesting hour in
conversing of former times, and in relating some of the circumstances,
that had occurred to each, since they parted.
The evening was so far advanced, when M. Barreaux left Emily, that she
could not visit the garden that night; but, on the following morning,
she traced its long-regretted scenes with fond impatience; and, as she
walked beneath the groves, which her father had planted, and where she
had so often sauntered in affectionate conversation with him, his
countenance, his smile, even the accents of his voice, returned with
exactness to her fancy, and her heart melted to the tender
recollections.
This, too, was his favourite season of the year, at which they had
often together admired the rich and variegated tints of these woods and
the magical effect of autumnal lights upon the mountains; and now, the
view of these circumstances made memory eloquent. As she wandered
pensively on, she fancied the following address
TO AUTUMN
Sweet Autumn! how thy melancholy grace
Steals on my heart, as through these shades I wind!
Sooth’d by thy breathing sigh, I fondly trace
Each lonely image of the pensive mind!
Lov’d scenes, lov’d friends—long lost! around me rise,
And wake the melting thought, the tender tear!
That tear, that thought, which more than mirth I prize—
Sweet as the gradual tint, that paints thy year!
Thy farewell smile, with fond regret, I view,
Thy beaming lights, soft gliding o’er the woods;
Thy distant landscape, touch’d with yellow hue
While falls the lengthen’d gleam; thy winding floods,
Now veil’d in shade, save where the skiff’s white sails
Swell to the breeze, and catch thy streaming ray.
But now, e’en now!—the partial vision fails,
And the wave smiles, as sweeps the cloud away!
Emblem of life!—Thus checquer’d is its plan,
Thus joy succeeds to grief—thus smiles the varied man!
One of Emily’s earliest enquiries, after her arrival at La Vallée, was
concerning Theresa, her father’s old servant, whom it may be remembered
that M. Quesnel had turned from the house when it was let, without any
provision. Understanding that she lived in a cottage at no great
distance, Emily walked thither, and, on approaching, was pleased to
see, that her habitation was pleasantly situated on a green slope,
sheltered by a tuft of oaks, and had an appearance of comfort and
extreme neatness. She found the old woman within, picking vine-stalks,
who, on perceiving her young mistress, was nearly overcome with joy.
“Ah! my dear young lady!” said she, “I thought I should never see you
again in this world, when I heard you were gone to that outlandish
country. I have been hardly used, since you went; I little thought they
would have turned me out of my old master’s family in my old age!”
Emily lamented the circumstance, and then assured her, that she would
make her latter days comfortable, and expressed satisfaction, on seeing
her in so pleasant a habitation.
Theresa thanked her with tears, adding, “Yes, mademoiselle, it is a
very comfortable home, thanks to the kind friend, who took me out of my
distress, when you were too far off to help me, and placed me here! I
little thought!—but no more of that—”
“And who was this kind friend?” said Emily: “whoever it was, I shall
consider him as mine also.”
“Ah, mademoiselle! that friend forbade me to blazon the good deed—I
must not say, who it was. But how you are altered since I saw you last!
You look so pale now, and so thin, too; but then, there is my old
master’s smile! Yes, that will never leave you, any more than the
goodness, that used to make him smile. Alas-a-day! the poor lost a
friend indeed, when he died!”
Emily was affected by this mention of her father, which Theresa
observing, changed the subject. “I heard, mademoiselle,” said she,
“that Madame Cheron married a foreign gentleman, after all, and took
you abroad; how does she do?”
Emily now mentioned her death. “Alas!” said Theresa, “if she had not
been my master’s sister, I should never have loved her; she was always
so cross. But how does that dear young gentleman do, M. Valancourt? he
was a handsome youth, and a good one; is he well, mademoiselle?”
Emily was much agitated.
“A blessing on him!” continued Theresa. “Ah, my dear young lady, you
need not look so shy; I know all about it. Do you think I do not know,
that he loves you? Why, when you were away, mademoiselle, he used to
come to the château and walk about it, so disconsolate! He would go
into every room in the lower part of the house, and, sometimes, he
would sit himself down in a chair, with his arms across, and his eyes
on the floor, and there he would sit, and think, and think, for the
hour together. He used to be very fond of the south parlour, because I
told him it used to be yours; and there he would stay, looking at the
pictures, which I said you drew, and playing upon your lute, that hung
up by the window, and reading in your books, till sunset, and then he
must go back to his brother’s château. And then—”
“It is enough, Theresa,” said Emily.—“How long have you lived in this
cottage—and how can I serve you? Will you remain here, or return and
live with me?”
“Nay, mademoiselle,” said Theresa, “do not be so shy to your poor old
servant. I am sure it is no disgrace to like such a good young
gentleman.”
A deep sigh escaped from Emily.
“Ah! how he did love to talk of you! I loved him for that. Nay, for
that matter, he liked to hear me talk, for he did not say much himself.
But I soon found out what he came to the château about. Then, he would
go into the garden, and down to the terrace, and sit under that great
tree there, for the day together, with one of your books in his hand;
but he did not read much, I fancy; for one day I happened to go that
way, and I heard somebody talking. Who can be here? says I: I am sure I
let nobody into the garden, but the Chevalier. So I walked softly, to
see who it could be; and behold! it was the Chevalier himself, talking
to himself about you. And he repeated your name, and sighed so! and
said he had lost you for ever, for that you would never return for him.
I thought he was out in his reckoning there, but I said nothing, and
stole away.”
“No more of this trifling,” said Emily, awakening from her reverie: “it
displeases me.”
“But, when M. Quesnel let the château, I thought it would have broke
the Chevalier’s heart.”
“Theresa,” said Emily seriously, “you must name the Chevalier no more!”
“Not name him, mademoiselle!” cried Theresa: “what times are come up
now? Why, I love the Chevalier next to my old master and you,
mademoiselle.”
“Perhaps your love was not well bestowed, then,” replied Emily, trying
to conceal her tears; “but, however that might be, we shall meet no
more.”
“Meet no more!—not well bestowed!” exclaimed Theresa. “What do I hear?
No, mademoiselle, my love was well bestowed, for it was the Chevalier
Valancourt, who gave me this cottage, and has supported me in my old
age, ever since M. Quesnel turned me from my master’s house.”
“The Chevalier Valancourt!” said Emily, trembling extremely.
“Yes, mademoiselle, he himself, though he made me promise not to tell;
but how could one help, when one heard him ill spoken of? Ah! dear
young lady, you may well weep, if you have behaved unkindly to him, for
a more tender heart than his never young gentleman had. He found me out
in my distress, when you were too far off to help me; and M. Quesnel
refused to do so, and bade me go to service again—Alas! I was too old
for that!—The Chevalier found me, and bought me this cottage, and gave
me money to furnish it, and bade me seek out another poor woman to live
with me; and he ordered his brother’s steward to pay me, every quarter,
that which has supported me in comfort. Think then, mademoiselle,
whether I have not reason to speak well of the Chevalier. And there are
others, who could have afforded it better than he: and I am afraid he
has hurt himself by his generosity, for quarter day is gone by long
since, and no money for me! But do not weep so, mademoiselle: you are
not sorry surely to hear of the poor Chevalier’s goodness?”
“Sorry!” said Emily, and wept the more. “But how long is it since you
have seen him?”
“Not this many a day, mademoiselle.”
“When did you hear of him?” enquired Emily, with increased emotion.
“Alas! never since he went away so suddenly into Languedoc; and he was
but just come from Paris then, or I should have seen him, I am sure.
Quarter day is gone by long since, and, as I said, no money for me; and
I begin to fear some harm has happened to him: and if I was not so far
from Estuvière and so lame, I should have gone to enquire before this
time; and I have nobody to send so far.”
Emily’s anxiety, as to the fate of Valancourt, was now scarcely
endurable, and, since propriety would not suffer her to send to the
château of his brother, she requested that Theresa would immediately
hire some person to go to his steward from herself, and, when he asked
for the quarterage due to her, to make enquiries concerning Valancourt.
But she first made Theresa promise never to mention her name in this
affair, or ever with that of the Chevalier Valancourt; and her former
faithfulness to M. St. Aubert induced Emily to confide in her
assurances. Theresa now joyfully undertook to procure a person for this
errand, and then Emily, after giving her a sum of money to supply her
with present comforts, returned, with spirits heavily oppressed, to her
home, lamenting, more than ever, that a heart, possessed of so much
benevolence as Valancourt’s, should have been contaminated by the vices
of the world, but affected by the delicate affection, which his
kindness to her old servant expressed for herself.