The rich plains of Languedoc, which exhibited all the glories of the vintage, with the gaieties of a French festival, no longer awakened St. Aubert to pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to the hilarity and youthful beauty which surrounded him. As his languid eyes moved over the scene, he considered, that they would soon, perhaps, be closed forever on this world. “Those distant and sublime mountains,” said he secretly, as he gazed on a chain of the Pyrenees that stretched towards the west, “these luxuriant plains, this blue vault, the cheerful light of day, will be shut from my eyes! The song of the peasant, the cheering voice of man—will no longer sound for me!”
The intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to read what passed in the mind of her father, and she fixed them on his face, with an expression of such tender pity, as recalled his thoughts from every desultory object of regret, and he remembered only, that he must leave his daughter without protection. This reflection changed regret to agony; he sighed deeply, and remained silent, while she seemed to understand that sigh, for she pressed his hand affectionately, and then turned to the window to conceal her tears. The sun now threw a last yellow gleam on the waves of the Mediterranean, and the gloom of twilight spread fast over the scene, till only a melancholy ray appeared on the western horizon, marking the point where the sun had set amid the vapours of an autumnal evening. A cool breeze now came from the shore, and Emily let down the glass; but the air, which was refreshing to health, was as chilling to sickness, and St. Aubert desired, that the window might be drawn up. Increasing illness made him now more anxious than ever to finish the day’s journey, and he stopped the muleteer to enquire how far they had yet to go to the next post. He replied, “Nine miles.” “I feel I am unable to proceed much further,” said St. Aubert; “enquire, as you go, if there is any house on the road that would accommodate us for the night.” He sunk back in the carriage, and Michael, cracking his whip in the air, set off, and continued on the full gallop, till St. Aubert, almost fainting, called to him to stop. Emily looked anxiously from the window, and saw a peasant walking at some little distance on the road, for whom they waited, till he came up, when he was asked, if there was any house in the neighbourhood that accommodated travellers. He replied, that he knew of none. “There is a château, indeed, among those woods on the right,” added he, “but I believe it receives nobody, and I cannot show you the way, for I am almost a stranger here.” St. Aubert was going to ask him some further question concerning the château, but the man abruptly passed on. After some consideration, he ordered Michael to proceed slowly to the woods. Every moment now deepened the twilight, and increased the difficulty of finding the road. Another peasant soon after passed. “Which is the way to the château in the woods?” cried Michael.
“The château in the woods!” exclaimed the peasant—“Do you mean that with the turret, yonder?”
“I don’t know as for the turret, as you call it,” said Michael, “I mean that white piece of a building, that we see at a distance there, among the trees.”
“Yes, that is the turret; why, who are you, that you are going thither?” said the man with surprise.
St. Aubert, on hearing this odd question, and observing the peculiar tone in which it was delivered, looked out from the carriage. “We are travellers,” said he, “who are in search of a house of accommodation for the night; is there any hereabout?”
“None, Monsieur, unless you have a mind to try your luck yonder,” replied the peasant, pointing to the woods, “but I would not advise you to go there.”
“To whom does the château belong?”
“I scarcely know myself, Monsieur.”
“It is uninhabited, then?”—“No, not uninhabited; the steward and housekeeper are there, I believe.”
On hearing this, St. Aubert determined to proceed to the château, and risk the refusal of being accommodated for the night; he therefore desired the countryman would show Michael the way, and bade him expect reward for his trouble. The man was for a moment silent, and then said, that he was going on other business, but that the road could not be missed, if they went up an avenue to the right, to which he pointed. St. Aubert was going to speak, but the peasant wished him good night, and walked on.
The carriage now moved towards the avenue, which was guarded by a gate, and Michael having dismounted to open it, they entered between rows of ancient oak and chestnut, whose intermingled branches formed a lofty arch above. There was something so gloomy and desolate in the appearance of this avenue, and its lonely silence, that Emily almost shuddered as she passed along; and, recollecting the manner in which the peasant had mentioned the château, she gave a mysterious meaning to his words, such as she had not suspected when he uttered them. These apprehensions, however, she tried to check, considering that they were probably the effect of a melancholy imagination, which her father’s situation, and a consideration of her own circumstances, had made sensible to every impression.
They passed slowly on, for they were now almost in darkness, which, together with the unevenness of the ground, and the frequent roots of old trees, that shot up above the soil, made it necessary to proceed with caution. On a sudden Michael stopped the carriage; and, as St. Aubert looked from the window to enquire the cause, he perceived a figure at some distance moving up the avenue. The dusk would
