One painful scene yet awaited her, for she determined to visit again her
father's grave; and that she might not be interrupted, or observed in
the indulgence of her melancholy tenderness, she deferred her visit,
till every inhabitant of the convent, except the nun who promised
to bring her the key of the church, should be retired to rest. Emily
remained in her chamber, till she heard the convent bell strike twelve,
when the nun came, as she had appointed, with the key of a private door,
that opened into the church, and they descended together the narrow
winding stair-case, that led thither.
The nun offered to accompany Emily
to the grave, adding, 'It is melancholy to go alone at this hour;' but
the former, thanking her for the consideration, could not consent to
have any witness of her sorrow; and the sister, having unlocked the
door, gave her the lamp. 'You will remember, sister,' said she, 'that in
the east aisle, which you must pass, is a newly opened grave; hold the
light to the ground, that you may not stumble over the loose earth.'
Emily, thanking her again, took the lamp, and, stepping into the church,
sister Mariette departed. But Emily paused a moment at the door;
a sudden fear came over her, and she returned to the foot of the
stair-case, where, as she heard the steps of the nun ascending, and,
while she held up the lamp, saw her black veil waving over the spiral
balusters, she was tempted to call her back. While she hesitated, the
veil disappeared, and, in the next moment, ashamed of her fears, she
returned to the church.
The cold air of the aisles chilled her, and
their deep silence and extent, feebly shone upon by the moon-light, that
streamed through a distant gothic window, would at any other time have
awed her into superstition; now, grief occupied all her attention. She
scarcely heard the whispering echoes of her own steps, or thought of the
open grave, till she found herself almost on its brink. A friar of the
convent had been buried there on the preceding evening, and, as she had
sat alone in her chamber at twilight, she heard, at distance, the monks
chanting the requiem for his soul. This brought freshly to her memory
the circumstances of her father's death; and, as the voices, mingling
with a low querulous peal of the organ, swelled faintly, gloomy and
affecting visions had arisen upon her mind. Now she remembered them,
and, turning aside to avoid the broken ground, these recollections made
her pass on with quicker steps to the grave of St. Aubert, when in the
moon-light, that fell athwart a remote part of the aisle, she thought
she saw a shadow gliding between the pillars. She stopped to listen,
and, not hearing any footstep, believed that her fancy had deceived her,
and, no longer apprehensive of being observed, proceeded. St. Aubert was
buried beneath a plain marble, bearing little more than his name and the
date of his birth and death, near the foot of the stately monument of
the Villerois.