Rather, my child, rejoice, that I am saved from such suffering,
and that I am permitted to die with a mind unimpaired, and sensible of
the comforts of faith and resignation.' St. Aubert paused, fatigued with
speaking. Emily again endeavoured to assume an air of composure; and, in
replying to what he had said, tried to sooth him with a belief, that he
had not spoken in vain.
When he had reposed a while, he resumed the conversation. 'Let me
return,' said he, 'to a subject, which is very near my heart. I said I
had a solemn promise to receive from you; let me receive it now, before
I explain the chief circumstance which it concerns; there are others,
of which your peace requires that you should rest in ignorance. Promise,
then, that you will perform exactly what I shall enjoin.'
Emily, awed by the earnest solemnity of his manner, dried her tears,
that had begun again to flow, in spite of her efforts to suppress them;
and, looking eloquently at St. Aubert, bound herself to do whatever he
should require by a vow, at which she shuddered, yet knew not why.
He proceeded: 'I know you too well, my Emily, to believe, that you would
break any promise, much less one thus solemnly given; your assurance
gives me peace, and the observance of it is of the utmost importance to
your tranquillity. Hear, then, what I am going to tell you. The closet,
which adjoins my chamber at La Vallee, has a sliding board in the floor.
You will know it by a remarkable knot in the wood, and by its being the
next board, except one, to the wainscot, which fronts the door. At the
distance of about a yard from that end, nearer the window, you will
perceive a line across it, as if the plank had been joined;--the way to
open it is this:--Press your foot upon the line; the end of the board
will then sink, and you may slide it with ease beneath the other. Below,
you will see a hollow place.' St. Aubert paused for breath, and Emily
sat fixed in deep attention. 'Do you understand these directions, my
dear?' said he. Emily, though scarcely able to speak, assured him that
she did. 'When you return home, then,' he added with a deep sigh-
At the mention of her return home, all the melancholy circumstances,
that must attend this return, rushed upon her fancy; she burst into
convulsive grief, and St. Aubert himself, affected beyond the resistance
of the fortitude which he had, at first, summoned, wept with her.
After some moments, he composed himself. 'My dear child,' said he, 'be
comforted. When I am gone, you will not be forsaken--I leave you only in
the more immediate care of that Providence, which has never yet forsaken
me.