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 forever, 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
