CHAPTER XIII

As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles,

Placed far amid the melancholy main,

(Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles,

Or that aerial beings sometimes deign

To stand embodied to our senses plain)

Sees on the naked hill, or valley low,

The whilst in ocean Phœbus dips his wain,

A vast assembly moving to and fro,

Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.

CASTLE OF INDOLENCE

Madame Cheron’s avarice at length yielded to her vanity. Some very

splendid entertainments, which Madame Clairval had given, and the

general adulation, which was paid her, made the former more anxious

than before to secure an alliance, that would so much exalt her in her

own opinion and in that of the world. She proposed terms for the

immediate marriage of her niece, and offered to give Emily a dower,

provided Madame Clairval observed equal terms, on the part of her

nephew. Madame Clairval listened to the proposal, and, considering that

Emily was the apparent heiress of her aunt’s wealth, accepted it.

Meanwhile, Emily knew nothing of the transaction, till Madame Cheron

informed her, that she must make preparation for the nuptials, which

would be celebrated without further delay; then, astonished and wholly

unable to account for this sudden conclusion, which Valancourt had not

solicited (for he was ignorant of what had passed between the elder

ladies, and had not dared to hope such good fortune), she decisively

objected to it. Madame Cheron, however, quite as jealous of

contradiction now, as she had been formerly, contended for a speedy

marriage with as much vehemence as she had formerly opposed whatever

had the most remote possibility of leading to it; and Emily’s scruples

disappeared, when she again saw Valancourt, who was now informed of the

happiness, designed for him, and came to claim a promise of it from

herself.

While preparations were making for these nuptials, Montoni became the

acknowledged lover of Madame Cheron; and, though Madame Clairval was

much displeased, when she heard of the approaching connection, and was

willing to prevent that of Valancourt with Emily, her conscience told

her, that she had no right thus to trifle with their peace, and Madame

Clairval, though a woman of fashion, was far less advanced than her

friend in the art of deriving satisfaction from distinction and

admiration, rather than from conscience.

Emily observed with concern the ascendancy, which Montoni had acquired

over Madame Cheron, as well as the increasing frequency of his visits;

and her own opinion of this Italian was confirmed by that of

Valancourt, who had always expressed a dislike of him. As she was, one

morning, sitting at work in the pavilion, enjoying the pleasant

freshness of spring, whose colours were now spread upon the landscape,

and listening to Valancourt, who was reading, but who often laid aside

the book to converse, she received a summons to attend Madame Cheron

immediately, and had scarcely entered the dressing-room, when she

observed with surprise the dejection of her aunt’s countenance, and the

contrasted gaiety of her dress. “So, niece!”—said Madame, and she

stopped under some degree of embarrassment.—“I sent for you—I—I wished

to see you; I have news to tell you. From this hour you must consider

the Signor Montoni as your uncle—we were married this morning.”

Astonished—not so much at the marriage, as at the secrecy with which it

had been concluded, and the agitation with which it was announced,

Emily, at length, attributed the privacy to the wish of Montoni, rather

than of her aunt. His wife, however, intended, that the contrary should

be believed, and therefore added, “you see I wished to avoid a bustle;

but now the ceremony is over I shall do so no longer; and I wish to

announce to my servants that they must receive the Signor Montoni for

their master.” Emily made a feeble attempt to congratulate her on these

apparently imprudent nuptials. “I shall now celebrate my marriage with

some splendour,” continued Madame Montoni, “and to save time I shall

avail myself of the preparation that has been made for yours, which

will, of course, be delayed a little while. Such of your wedding

clothes as are ready I shall expect you will appear in, to do honour to

this festival. I also wish you to inform Monsieur Valancourt, that I

have changed my name, and he will acquaint Madame Clairval. In a few

days I shall give a grand entertainment, at which I shall request their

presence.”

Emily was so lost in surprise and various thought, that she made Madame

Montoni scarcely any reply, but, at her desire, she returned to inform

Valancourt of what had passed. Surprise was not his predominant emotion

on hearing of these hasty nuptials; and, when he learned, that they

were to be the means of delaying his own, and that the very ornaments

of the château, which had been prepared to grace the nuptial day of his

Emily, were to be degraded to the celebration of Madame Montoni’s,

grief and indignation agitated him alternately. He could conceal

neither from the observation of Emily, whose efforts to abstract him

from these serious emotions, and to laugh at the apprehensive

considerations, that assailed him, were ineffectual; and, when, at

length, he took leave, there was an earnest tenderness in his manner,

that extremely affected her; she even shed tears, when he disappeared

at the end of the terrace, yet knew not exactly why she should do so.

Montoni now took possession of the château, and the command of its

inhabitants, with the ease of a man, who had long considered it to be

his own. His friend Cavigni, who had been extremely serviceable, in

having paid Madame Cheron the attention and flattery, which she

required, but from which Montoni too often revolted, had apartments

assigned to him, and received from the domestics an equal degree of

obedience with the master of the mansion.

Within a few days, Madame Montoni, as she had promised, gave a

magnificent entertainment to a very numerous company, among whom was

Valancourt; but at which Madame Clairval excused herself from

attending. There was a concert, ball and supper. Valancourt was, of

course, Emily’s partner, and though, when he gave a look to the

decorations of the apartments, he could not but remember, that they

were designed for other festivities, than those they now contributed to

celebrate, he endeavoured to check his concern by considering, that a

little while only would elapse before they would be given to their

original destination. During this evening, Madame Montoni danced,

laughed and talked incessantly; while Montoni, silent, reserved and

somewhat haughty, seemed weary of the parade, and of the frivolous

company it had drawn together.

This was the first and the last entertainment, given in celebration of

their nuptials. Montoni, though the severity of his temper and the

gloominess of his pride prevented him from enjoying such festivities,

was extremely willing to promote them. It was seldom, that he could

meet in any company a man of more address, and still seldomer one of

more understanding, than himself; the balance of advantage in such

parties, or in the connections, which might arise from them, must,

therefore, be on his side; and, knowing, as he did, the selfish

purposes, for which they are generally frequented, he had no objection

to measure his talents of dissimulation with those of any other

competitor for distinction and plunder. But his wife, who, when her own

interest was immediately concerned, had sometimes more discernment than

vanity, acquired a consciousness of her inferiority to other women, in

personal attractions, which, uniting with the jealousy natural to the

discovery, counteracted his readiness for mingling with all the parties

Thoulouse could afford. Till she had, as she supposed, the affections

of a husband to lose, she had no motive for discovering the unwelcome

truth, and it had never obtruded itself upon her; but, now that it

influenced her policy, she opposed her husband’s inclination for

company, with the more eagerness, because she believed him to be really

as well received in the female society of the place, as, during his

addresses to her, he had affected to be.

A few weeks only had elapsed, since the marriage, when Madame Montoni

informed Emily, that the Signor intended to return to Italy, as soon as

the necessary preparation could be made for so long a journey. “We

shall go to Venice,” said she, “where the Signor has a fine mansion,

and from thence to his estate in Tuscany. Why do you look so grave,

child?—You, who are so fond of a romantic country and fine views, will

doubtless be delighted with this journey.”

“Am I then to be of the party, madam?” said Emily, with extreme

surprise and emotion. “Most certainly,” replied her aunt, “how could

you imagine we should leave you behind? But I see you are thinking of

the Chevalier; he is not yet, I believe, informed of the journey, but

he very soon will be so. Signor Montoni is gone to acquaint Madame

Clairval of our journey, and to say, that the proposed connection

between the families must from this time be thought of no more.”

The unfeeling manner, in which Madame Montoni thus informed her niece,

that she must be separated, perhaps for ever, from the man, with whom

she was on the point of being united for life, added to the dismay,

which she must otherwise have suffered at such intelligence. When she

could speak, she asked the cause of the sudden change in Madame’s

sentiments towards Valancourt, but the only reply she could obtain was,

that the Signor had forbade the connection, considering it to be

greatly inferior to what Emily might reasonably expect.

“I now leave the affair entirely to the Signor,” added Madame Montoni,

“but I must say, that M. Valancourt never was a favourite with me, and

I was overpersuaded, or I should not have given my consent to the

connection. I was weak enough—I am so foolish sometimes!—to suffer

other people’s uneasiness to affect me, and so my better judgment

yielded to your affliction. But the Signor has very properly pointed

out the folly of this, and he shall not have to reprove me a second

time. I am determined, that you shall submit to those, who know how to

guide you better than yourself—I am determined, that you shall be

conformable.”

Emily would have been astonished at the assertions of this eloquent

speech, had not her mind been so overwhelmed by the sudden shock it had

received, that she scarcely heard a word of what was latterly addressed

to her. Whatever were the weaknesses of Madame Montoni, she might have

avoided to accuse herself with those of compassion and tenderness to

the feelings of others, and especially to those of Emily. It was the

same ambition, that lately prevailed upon her to solicit an alliance

with Madame Clairval’s family, which induced her to withdraw from it,

now that her marriage with Montoni had exalted her self-consequence,

and, with it, her views for her niece.

Emily was, at this time, too much affected to employ either

remonstrance, or entreaty on this topic; and when, at length, she

attempted the latter, her emotion overcame her speech, and she retired

to her apartment, to think, if in the present state of her mind to

think was possible, upon this sudden and overwhelming subject. It was

very long, before her spirits were sufficiently composed to permit the

reflection, which, when it came, was dark and even terrible. She saw,

that Montoni sought to aggrandise himself in his disposal of her, and

it occurred, that his friend Cavigni was the person, for whom he was

interested. The prospect of going to Italy was still rendered darker,

when she considered the tumultuous situation of that country, then torn

by civil commotion, where every petty state was at war with its

neighbour, and even every castle liable to the attack of an invader.

She considered the person, to whose immediate guidance she would be

committed, and the vast distance, that was to separate her from

Valancourt, and, at the recollection of him, every other image vanished

from her mind, and every thought was again obscured by grief.

In this perturbed state she passed some hours, and, when she was

summoned to dinner, she entreated permission to remain in her own

apartment; but Madame Montoni was alone, and the request was refused.

Emily and her aunt said little during the repast; the one occupied by

her griefs, the other engrossed by the disappointment, which the

unexpected absence of Montoni occasioned; for not only was her vanity

piqued by the neglect, but her jealousy alarmed by what she considered

as a mysterious engagement. When the cloth was drawn and they were

alone, Emily renewed the mention of Valancourt; but her aunt, neither

softened to pity, nor awakened to remorse, became enraged, that her

will should be opposed, and the authority of Montoni questioned, though

this was done by Emily with her usual gentleness, who, after a long,

and torturing conversation, retired in tears.

As she crossed the hall, a person entered it by the great door, whom,

as her eyes hastily glanced that way, she imagined to be Montoni, and

she was passing on with quicker steps, when she heard the well-known

voice of Valancourt.

“Emily, O! my Emily!” cried he in a tone faltering with impatience,

while she turned, and, as he advanced, was alarmed at the expression of

his countenance and the eager desperation of his air. “In tears, Emily!

I would speak with you,” said he, “I have much to say; conduct me to

where we may converse. But you tremble—you are ill! Let me lead you to

a seat.”

He observed the open door of an apartment, and hastily took her hand to

lead her thither; but she attempted to withdraw it, and said, with a

languid smile, “I am better already; if you wish to see my aunt she is

in the dining-parlour.” “I must speak with _you_, my Emily,” replied

Valancourt, “Good God! is it already come to this? Are you indeed so

willing to resign me? But this is an improper place—I am overheard. Let

me entreat your attention, if only for a few minutes.”—“When you have

seen my aunt,” said Emily. “I was wretched enough when I came hither,”

exclaimed Valancourt, “do not increase my misery by this coldness—this

cruel refusal.”

The despondency, with which he spoke this, affected her almost to

tears, but she persisted in refusing to hear him, till he had conversed

with Madame Montoni. “Where is her husband, where, then, is Montoni?”

said Valancourt, in an altered tone: “it is he, to whom I must speak.”

Emily, terrified for the consequence of the indignation, that flashed

in his eyes, tremblingly assured him, that Montoni was not at home, and

entreated he would endeavour to moderate his resentment. At the

tremulous accents of her voice, his eyes softened instantly from

wildness into tenderness. “You are ill, Emily,” said he, “they will

destroy us both! Forgive me, that I dared to doubt your affection.”

Emily no longer opposed him, as he led her into an adjoining parlour;

the manner, in which he had named Montoni, had so much alarmed her for

his own safety, that she was now only anxious to prevent the

consequences of his just resentment. He listened to her entreaties,

with attention, but replied to them only with looks of despondency and

tenderness, concealing, as much as possible, the sentiments he felt

towards Montoni, that he might soothe the apprehensions, which

distressed her. But she saw the veil he had spread over his resentment,

and, his assumed tranquillity only alarming her more, she urged, at

length, the impolicy of forcing an interview with Montoni, and of

taking any measure, which might render their separation irremediable.

Valancourt yielded to these remonstrances, and her affecting entreaties

drew from him a promise, that, however Montoni might persist in his

design of disuniting them, he would not seek to redress his wrongs by

violence. “For my sake,” said Emily, “let the consideration of what I

should suffer deter you from such a mode of revenge!” “For your sake,

Emily,” replied Valancourt, his eyes filling with tears of tenderness

and grief, while he gazed upon her. “Yes—yes—I shall subdue myself.

But, though I have given you my solemn promise to do this, do not

expect, that I can tamely submit to the authority of Montoni; if I

could, I should be unworthy of you. Yet, O Emily! how long may he

condemn me to live without you,—how long may it be before you return to

France!”

Emily endeavoured to sooth him with assurances of her unalterable

affection, and by representing, that, in little more than a year, she

should be her own mistress, as far as related to her aunt, from whose

guardianship her age would then release her; assurances, which gave

little consolation to Valancourt, who considered, that she would then

be in Italy and in the power of those, whose dominion over her would

not cease with their rights; but he affected to be consoled by them.

Emily, comforted by the promise she had obtained, and by his apparent

composure, was about to leave him, when her aunt entered the room. She

threw a glance of sharp reproof upon her niece, who immediately

withdrew, and of haughty displeasure upon Valancourt.

“This is not the conduct I should have expected from you, sir;” said

she, “I did not expect to see you in my house, after you had been

informed, that your visits were no longer agreeable, much less, that

you would seek a clandestine interview with my niece, and that she

would grant one.”

Valancourt, perceiving it necessary to vindicate Emily from such a

design, explained, that the purpose of his own visit had been to

request an interview with Montoni, and he then entered upon the subject

of it, with the tempered spirit which the sex, rather than the

respectability, of Madame Montoni, demanded.

His expostulations were answered with severe rebuke; she lamented

again, that her prudence had ever yielded to what she termed

compassion, and added, that she was so sensible of the folly of her

former consent, that, to prevent the possibility of a repetition, she

had committed the affair entirely to the conduct of Signor Montoni.

The feeling eloquence of Valancourt, however, at length, made her

sensible in some measure of her unworthy conduct, and she became

susceptible to shame, but not remorse: she hated Valancourt, who

awakened her to this painful sensation, and, in proportion as she grew

dissatisfied with herself, her abhorrence of him increased. This was

also the more inveterate, because his tempered words and manner were

such as, without accusing her, compelled her to accuse herself, and

neither left her a hope, that the odious portrait was the caricature of

his prejudice, or afforded her an excuse for expressing the violent

resentment, with which she contemplated it. At length, her anger rose

to such a height, that Valancourt was compelled to leave the house

abruptly, lest he should forfeit his own esteem by an intemperate

reply. He was then convinced, that from Madame Montoni he had nothing

to hope, for what of either pity, or justice could be expected from a

person, who could feel the pain of guilt, without the humility of

repentance?

To Montoni he looked with equal despondency, since it was nearly

evident, that this plan of separation originated with him, and it was

not probable, that he would relinquish his own views to entreaties, or

remonstrances, which he must have foreseen and have been prepared to

resist. Yet, remembering his promise to Emily, and more solicitous,

concerning his love, than jealous of his consequence, Valancourt was

careful to do nothing that might unnecessarily irritate Montoni, he

wrote to him, therefore, not to demand an interview, but to solicit

one, and, having done this, he endeavoured to wait with calmness his

reply.

Madame Clairval was passive in the affair. When she gave her

approbation to Valancourt’s marriage, it was in the belief, that Emily

would be the heiress of Madame Montoni’s fortune; and, though, upon the

nuptials of the latter, when she perceived the fallacy of this

expectation, her conscience had withheld her from adopting any measure

to prevent the union, her benevolence was not sufficiently active to

impel her towards any step, that might now promote it. She was, on the

contrary, secretly pleased, that Valancourt was released from an

engagement, which she considered to be as inferior, in point of

fortune, to his merit, as his alliance was thought by Montoni to be

humiliating to the beauty of Emily; and, though her pride was wounded

by this rejection of a member of her family, she disdained to show

resentment otherwise, than by silence.

Montoni, in his reply to Valancourt, said, that as an interview could

neither remove the objections of the one, nor overcome the wishes of

the other, it would serve only to produce useless altercation between

them. He, therefore, thought proper to refuse it.

In consideration of the policy, suggested by Emily, and of his promise

to her, Valancourt restrained the impulse, that urged him to the house

of Montoni, to demand what had been denied to his entreaties. He only

repeated his solicitations to see him; seconding them with all the

arguments his situation could suggest. Thus several days passed, in

remonstrance, on one side, and inflexible denial, on the other; for,

whether it was fear, or shame, or the hatred, which results from both,

that made Montoni shun the man he had injured, he was peremptory in his

refusal, and was neither softened to pity by the agony, which

Valancourt’s letters portrayed, nor awakened to a repentance of his own

injustice by the strong remonstrances he employed. At length,

Valancourt’s letters were returned unopened, and then, in the first

moments of passionate despair, he forgot every promise to Emily, except

the solemn one, which bound him to avoid violence, and hastened to

Montoni’s château, determined to see him by whatever other means might

be necessary. Montoni was denied, and Valancourt, when he afterwards

enquired for Madame, and Ma’amselle St. Aubert, was absolutely refused

admittance by the servants. Not choosing to submit himself to a contest

with these, he, at length, departed, and, returning home in a state of

mind approaching to frenzy, wrote to Emily of what had passed,

expressed without restraint all the agony of his heart, and entreated,

that, since he must not otherwise hope to see her immediately, she

would allow him an interview unknown to Montoni. Soon after he had

dispatched this, his passions becoming more temperate, he was sensible

of the error he had committed in having given Emily a new subject of

distress in the strong mention of his own suffering, and would have

given half the world, had it been his, to recover the letter. Emily,

however, was spared the pain she must have received from it by the

suspicious policy of Madame Montoni, who had ordered, that all letters,

addressed to her niece, should be delivered to herself, and who, after

having perused this and indulged the expressions of resentment, which

Valancourt’s mention of Montoni provoked, had consigned it to the

flames.

Montoni, meanwhile, every day more impatient to leave France, gave

repeated orders for dispatch to the servants employed in preparations

for the journey, and to the persons, with whom he was transacting some

particular business. He preserved a steady silence to the letters in

which Valancourt, despairing of greater good, and having subdued the

passion, that had transgressed against his policy, solicited only the

indulgence of being allowed to bid Emily farewell. But when Valancourt

learned that she was really to set out in a very few days, and that it

was designed he should see her no more, forgetting every consideration

of prudence, he dared, in a second letter to Emily, to propose a

clandestine marriage. This also was transmitted to Madame Montoni, and

the last day of Emily’s stay at Thoulouse arrived, without affording

Valancourt even a line to sooth his sufferings, or a hope, that he

should be allowed a parting interview.

During this period of torturing suspense to Valancourt, Emily was sunk

into that kind of stupor, with which sudden and irremediable misfortune

sometimes overwhelms the mind. Loving him with the tenderest affection,

and having long been accustomed to consider him as the friend and

companion of all her future days, she had no ideas of happiness, that

were not connected with him. What, then, must have been her suffering,

when thus suddenly they were to be separated, perhaps, for ever,

certainly to be thrown into distant parts of the world, where they

could scarcely hear of each other’s existence; and all this in

obedience to the will of a stranger, for such as Montoni, and of a

person, who had but lately been anxious to hasten their nuptials! It

was in vain, that she endeavoured to subdue her grief, and resign

herself to an event, which she could not avoid. The silence of

Valancourt afflicted more than it surprised her, since she attributed

it to its just occasion; but, when the day, preceding that, on which

she was to quit Thoulouse, arrived, and she had heard no mention of his

being permitted to take leave of her, grief overcame every

consideration, that had made her reluctant to speak of him, and she

enquired of Madame Montoni, whether this consolation had been refused.

Her aunt informed her that it had, adding, that, after the provocation

she had herself received from Valancourt, in their last interview, and

the persecution, which the Signor had suffered from his letters, no

entreaties should avail to procure it.

“If the chevalier expected this favour from us,” said she, “he should

have conducted himself in a very different manner; he should have

waited patiently, till he knew whether we were disposed to grant it,

and not have come and reproved me, because I did not think proper to

bestow my niece upon him, and then have persisted in troubling the

Signor, because he did not think proper to enter into any dispute about

so childish an affair. His behaviour throughout has been extremely

presumptuous and impertinent, and I desire, that I may never hear his

name repeated, and that you will get the better of those foolish

sorrows and whims, and look like other people, and not appear with that

dismal countenance, as if you were ready to cry. For, though you say

nothing, you cannot conceal your grief from my penetration. I can see

you are ready to cry at this moment, though I am reproving you for it;

aye, even now, in spite of my commands.”

Emily, having turned away to hide her tears, quitted the room to

indulge them, and the day was passed in an intensity of anguish, such

as she had, perhaps, never known before. When she withdrew to her

chamber for the night, she remained in the chair where she had placed

herself, on entering the room, absorbed in her grief, till long after

every member of the family, except herself, was retired to rest. She

could not divest herself of a belief, that she had parted with

Valancourt to meet no more; a belief, which did not arise merely from

foreseen circumstances, for, though the length of the journey she was

about to commence, the uncertainty as to the period of her return,

together with the prohibitions she had received, seemed to justify it,

she yielded also to an impression, which she mistook for a

presentiment, that she was going from Valancourt for ever. How dreadful

to her imagination, too, was the distance that would separate them—the

Alps, those tremendous barriers! would rise, and whole countries extend

between the regions where each must exist! To live in adjoining

provinces, to live even in the same country, though without seeing him,

was comparative happiness to the conviction of this dreadful length of

distance.

Her mind was, at length, so much agitated by the consideration of her

state, and the belief, that she had seen Valancourt for the last time,

that she suddenly became very faint, and, looking round the chamber for

something, that might revive her, she observed the casements, and had

just strength to throw one open, near which she seated herself. The air

recalled her spirits, and the still moonlight, that fell upon the elms

of a long avenue, fronting the window, somewhat soothed them, and

determined her to try whether exercise and the open air would not

relieve the intense pain that bound her temples. In the château all was

still; and, passing down the great staircase into the hall, from whence

a passage led immediately to the garden, she softly and unheard, as she

thought, unlocked the door, and entered the avenue. Emily passed on

with steps now hurried, and now faltering, as, deceived by the shadows

among the trees, she fancied she saw some person move in the distant

perspective, and feared, that it was a spy of Madame Montoni. Her

desire, however, to revisit the pavilion, where she had passed so many

happy hours with Valancourt, and had admired with him the extensive

prospect over Languedoc and her native Gascony, overcame her

apprehension of being observed, and she moved on towards the terrace,

which, running along the upper garden, commanded the whole of the lower

one, and communicated with it by a flight of marble steps, that

terminated the avenue.

Having reached these steps, she paused a moment to look round, for her

distance from the château now increased the fear, which the stillness

and obscurity of the hour had awakened. But, perceiving nothing that

could justify it, she ascended to the terrace, where the moonlight

showed the long broad walk, with the pavilion at its extremity, while

the rays silvered the foliage of the high trees and shrubs, that

bordered it on the right, and the tufted summits of those, that rose to

a level with the balustrade on the left, from the garden below. Her

distance from the château again alarming her, she paused to listen; the

night was so calm, that no sound could have escaped her, but she heard

only the plaintive sweetness of the nightingale, with the light shiver

of the leaves, and she pursued her way towards the pavilion, having

reached which, its obscurity did not prevent the emotion, that a fuller

view of its well-known scene would have excited. The lattices were

thrown back, and showed beyond their embowered arch the moonlight

landscape, shadowy and soft; its groves, and plains extending gradually

and indistinctly to the eye, its distant mountains catching a stronger

gleam, and the nearer river reflecting the moon, and trembling to her

rays.

Emily, as she approached the lattice, was sensible of the features of

this scene only as they served to bring Valancourt more immediately to

her fancy. “Ah!” said she, with a heavy sigh, as she threw herself into

a chair by the window, “how often have we sat together in this

spot—often have looked upon that landscape! Never, never more shall we

view it together—never—never more, perhaps, shall we look upon each

other!”

Her tears were suddenly stopped by terror—a voice spoke near her in the

pavilion; she shrieked—it spoke again, and she distinguished the

well-known tones of Valancourt. It was indeed Valancourt who supported

her in his arms! For some moments their emotion would not suffer either

to speak. “Emily,” said Valancourt at length, as he pressed her hand in

his. “Emily!” and he was again silent, but the accent, in which he had

pronounced her name, expressed all his tenderness and sorrow.

“O my Emily!” he resumed, after a long pause, “I do then see you once

again, and hear again the sound of that voice! I have haunted this

place—these gardens, for many—many nights, with a faint, very faint

hope of seeing you. This was the only chance that remained to me, and

thank Heaven! it has at length succeeded—I am not condemned to absolute

despair!”

Emily said something, she scarcely knew what, expressive of her

unalterable affection, and endeavoured to calm the agitation of his

mind; but Valancourt could for some time only utter incoherent

expressions of his emotions; and, when he was somewhat more composed,

he said, “I came hither, soon after sunset, and have been watching in

the gardens, and in this pavilion ever since; for, though I had now

given up all hope of seeing you, I could not resolve to tear myself

from a place so near to you, and should probably have lingered about

the château till morning dawned. O how heavily the moments have passed,

yet with what various emotion have they been marked, as I sometimes

thought I heard footsteps, and fancied you were approaching, and then

again—perceived only a dead and dreary silence! But, when you opened

the door of the pavilion, and the darkness prevented my distinguishing

with certainty, whether it was my love—my heart beat so strongly with

hopes and fears, that I could not speak. The instant I heard the

plaintive accents of your voice, my doubts vanished, but not my fears,

till you spoke of me; then, losing the apprehension of alarming you in

the excess of my emotion, I could no longer be silent. O Emily! these

are moments, in which joy and grief struggle so powerfully for

pre-eminence, that the heart can scarcely support the contest!”

Emily’s heart acknowledged the truth of this assertion, but the joy she

felt on thus meeting Valancourt, at the very moment when she was

lamenting, that they must probably meet no more, soon melted into

grief, as reflection stole over her thoughts, and imagination prompted

visions of the future. She struggled to recover the calm dignity of

mind, which was necessary to support her through this last interview,

and which Valancourt found it utterly impossible to attain, for the

transports of his joy changed abruptly into those of suffering, and he

expressed in the most impassioned language his horror of this

separation, and his despair of their ever meeting again. Emily wept

silently as she listened to him, and then, trying to command her own

distress, and to sooth his, she suggested every circumstance that could

lead to hope. But the energy of his fears led him instantly to detect

the friendly fallacies, which she endeavoured to impose on herself and

him, and also to conjure up illusions too powerful for his reason.

“You are going from me,” said he, “to a distant country, O how

distant!—to new society, new friends, new admirers, with people too,

who will try to make you forget me, and to promote new connections! How

can I know this, and not know, that you will never return for me—never

can be mine.” His voice was stifled by sighs.

“You believe, then,” said Emily, “that the pangs I suffer proceed from

a trivial and temporary interest; you believe—”

“Suffer!” interrupted Valancourt, “suffer for me! O Emily—how sweet—how

bitter are those words; what comfort, what anguish do they give! I

ought not to doubt the steadiness of your affection, yet such is the

inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to suspicion,

however unreasonable; always requiring new assurances from the object

of its interest, and thus it is, that I always feel revived, as by a

new conviction, when your words tell me I am dear to you; and, wanting

these, I relapse into doubt, and too often into despondency.” Then

seeming to recollect himself, he exclaimed, “But what a wretch am I,

thus to torture you, and in these moments, too! I, who ought to support

and comfort you!”

This reflection overcame Valancourt with tenderness, but, relapsing

into despondency, he again felt only for himself, and lamented again

this cruel separation, in a voice and words so impassioned, that Emily

could no longer struggle to repress her own grief, or to sooth his.

Valancourt, between these emotions of love and pity, lost the power,

and almost the wish, of repressing his agitation; and, in the intervals

of convulsive sobs, he, at one moment, kissed away her tears, then told

her cruelly, that possibly she might never again weep for him, and then

tried to speak more calmly, but only exclaimed, “O Emily—my heart will

break!—I cannot—cannot leave you! Now—I gaze upon that countenance, now

I hold you in my arms! a little while, and all this will appear a

dream. I shall look, and cannot see you; shall try to recollect your

features—and the impression will be fled from my imagination;—to hear

the tones of your voice, and even memory will be silent!—I cannot,

cannot leave you! Why should we confide the happiness of our whole

lives to the will of people, who have no right to interrupt, and,

except in giving you to me, have no power to promote it? O Emily!

venture to trust your own heart, venture to be mine for ever!” His

voice trembled, and he was silent; Emily continued to weep, and was

silent also, when Valancourt proceeded to propose an immediate

marriage, and that at an early hour on the following morning, she

should quit Madame Montoni’s house, and be conducted by him to the

church of the Augustines, where a friar should await to unite them.

The silence, with which she listened to a proposal, dictated by love

and despair, and enforced at a moment, when it seemed scarcely possible

for her to oppose it;—when her heart was softened by the sorrows of a

separation, that might be eternal, and her reason obscured by the

illusions of love and terror, encouraged him to hope, that it would not

be rejected. “Speak, my Emily!” said Valancourt eagerly, “let me hear

your voice, let me hear you confirm my fate.” she spoke not; her cheek

was cold, and her senses seemed to fail her, but she did not faint. To

Valancourt’s terrified imagination she appeared to be dying; he called

upon her name, rose to go to the château for assistance, and then,

recollecting her situation, feared to go, or to leave her for a moment.

After a few minutes, she drew a deep sigh, and began to revive. The

conflict she had suffered, between love and the duty she at present

owed to her father’s sister; her repugnance to a clandestine marriage,

her fear of emerging on the world with embarrassments, such as might

ultimately involve the object of her affection in misery and

repentance;—all this various interest was too powerful for a mind,

already enervated by sorrow, and her reason had suffered a transient

suspension. But duty, and good sense, however hard the conflict, at

length, triumphed over affection and mournful presentiment; above all,

she dreaded to involve Valancourt in obscurity and vain regret, which

she saw, or thought she saw, must be the too certain consequence of a

marriage in their present circumstances; and she acted, perhaps, with

somewhat more than female fortitude, when she resolved to endure a

present, rather than provoke a distant misfortune.

With a candour, that proved how truly she esteemed and loved him, and

which endeared her to him, if possible, more than ever, she told

Valancourt all her reasons for rejecting his proposals. Those, which

influenced her concerning his future welfare, he instantly refuted, or

rather contradicted; but they awakened tender considerations for her,

which the frenzy of passion and despair had concealed before, and love,

which had but lately prompted him to propose a clandestine and

immediate marriage, now induced him to renounce it. The triumph was

almost too much for his heart; for Emily’s sake, he endeavoured to

stifle his grief, but the swelling anguish would not be restrained. “O

Emily!” said he, “I must leave you—I _must_ leave you, and I know it is

for ever!”

Convulsive sobs again interrupted his words, and they wept together in

silence, till Emily, recollecting the danger of being discovered, and

the impropriety of prolonging an interview, which might subject her to

censure, summoned all her fortitude to utter a last farewell.

“Stay!” said Valancourt, “I conjure you stay, for I have much to tell

you. The agitation of my mind has hitherto suffered me to speak only on

the subject that occupied it;—I have forborne to mention a doubt of

much importance, partly, lest it should appear as if I told it with an

ungenerous view of alarming you into a compliance with my late

proposal.”

Emily, much agitated, did not leave Valancourt, but she led him from

the pavilion, and, as they walked upon the terrace, he proceeded as

follows:

“This Montoni: I have heard some strange hints concerning him. Are you

certain he is of Madame Quesnel’s family, and that his fortune is what

it appears to be?”

“I have no reason to doubt either,” replied Emily, in a voice of alarm.

“Of the first, indeed, I cannot doubt, but I have no certain means of

judging of the latter, and I entreat you will tell me all you have

heard.”

“That I certainly will, but it is very imperfect, and unsatisfactory

information. I gathered it by accident from an Italian, who was

speaking to another person of this Montoni. They were talking of his

marriage; the Italian said, that if he was the person he meant, he was

not likely to make Madame Cheron happy. He proceeded to speak of him in

general terms of dislike, and then gave some particular hints,

concerning his character, that excited my curiosity, and I ventured to

ask him a few questions. He was reserved in his replies, but, after

hesitating for some time, he owned, that he had understood abroad, that

Montoni was a man of desperate fortune and character. He said something

of a castle of Montoni’s, situated among the Apennines, and of some

strange circumstances, that might be mentioned, as to his former mode

of life. I pressed him to inform me further, but I believe the strong

interest I felt was visible in my manner, and alarmed him; for no

entreaties could prevail with him to give any explanation of the

circumstances he had alluded to, or to mention anything further

concerning Montoni. I observed to him, that, if Montoni was possessed

of a castle in the Apennines, it appeared from such a circumstance,

that he was of some family, and also seemed to contradict the report,

that he was a man of entirely broken fortunes. He shook his head, and

looked as if he could have said a great deal, but made no reply.

“A hope of learning something more satisfactory, or more positive,

detained me in his company a considerable time, and I renewed the

subject repeatedly, but the Italian wrapped himself up in reserve,

said—that what he had mentioned he had caught only from a floating

report, and that reports frequently arose from personal malice, and

were very little to be depended upon. I forbore to press the subject

farther, since it was obvious that he was alarmed for the consequence

of what he had already said, and I was compelled to remain in

uncertainty on a point where suspense is almost intolerable. Think,

Emily, what I must suffer to see you depart for a foreign country,

committed to the power of a man of such doubtful character as is this

Montoni! But I will not alarm you unnecessarily;—it is possible, as the

Italian said, at first, that this is not the Montoni he alluded to.

Yet, Emily, consider well before you resolve to commit yourself to him.

O! I must not trust myself to speak—or I shall renounce all the

motives, which so lately influenced me to resign the hope of your

becoming mine immediately.”

Valancourt walked upon the terrace with hurried steps, while Emily

remained leaning on the balustrade in deep thought. The information she

had just received excited, perhaps, more alarm than it could justify,

and raised once more the conflict of contrasted interests. She had

never liked Montoni. The fire and keenness of his eye, its proud

exultation, its bold fierceness, its sullen watchfulness, as occasion,

and even slight occasion, had called forth the latent soul, she had

often observed with emotion; while from the usual expression of his

countenance she had always shrunk. From such observations she was the

more inclined to believe, that it was this Montoni, of whom the Italian

had uttered his suspicious hints. The thought of being solely in his

power, in a foreign land, was terrifying to her, but it was not by

terror alone that she was urged to an immediate marriage with

Valancourt. The tenderest love had already pleaded his cause, but had

been unable to overcome her opinion, as to her duty, her disinterested

considerations for Valancourt, and the delicacy, which made her revolt

from a clandestine union. It was not to be expected, that a vague

terror would be more powerful, than the united influence of love and

grief. But it recalled all their energy, and rendered a second conquest

necessary.

With Valancourt, whose imagination was now awake to the suggestion of

every passion; whose apprehensions for Emily had acquired strength by

the mere mention of them, and became every instant more powerful, as

his mind brooded over them—with Valancourt no second conquest was

attainable. He thought he saw in the clearest light, and love assisted

the fear, that this journey to Italy would involve Emily in misery; he

determined, therefore, to persevere in opposing it, and in conjuring

her to bestow upon him the title of her lawful protector.

“Emily!” said he, with solemn earnestness, “this is no time for

scrupulous distinctions, for weighing the dubious and comparatively

trifling circumstances, that may affect our future comfort. I now see,

much more clearly than before, the train of serious dangers you are

going to encounter with a man of Montoni’s character. Those dark hints

of the Italian spoke much, but not more than the idea I have of

Montoni’s disposition, as exhibited even in his countenance. I think I

see at this moment all that could have been hinted, written there. He

is the Italian, whom I fear, and I conjure you for your own sake, as

well as for mine, to prevent the evils I shudder to foresee. O Emily!

let my tenderness, my arms withhold you from them—give me the right to

defend you!”

Emily only sighed, while Valancourt proceeded to remonstrate and to

entreat with all the energy that love and apprehension could inspire.

But, as his imagination magnified to her the possible evils she was

going to meet, the mists of her own fancy began to dissipate, and

allowed her to distinguish the exaggerated images, which imposed on his

reason. She considered, that there was no proof of Montoni being the

person, whom the stranger had meant; that, even if he was so, the

Italian had noticed his character and broken fortunes merely from

report; and that, though the countenance of Montoni seemed to give

probability to a part of the rumour, it was not by such circumstances

that an implicit belief of it could be justified. These considerations

would probably not have arisen so distinctly to her mind, at this time,

had not the terrors of Valancourt presented to her such obvious

exaggerations of her danger, as incited her to distrust the fallacies

of passion. But, while she endeavoured in the gentlest manner to

convince him of his error, she plunged him into a new one. His voice

and countenance changed to an expression of dark despair. “Emily!” said

he, “this, this moment is the bitterest that is yet come to me. You do

not—cannot love me!—It would be impossible for you to reason thus

coolly, thus deliberately, if you did. I, _I_ am torn with anguish at

the prospect of our separation, and of the evils that may await you in

consequence of it; I would encounter any hazards to prevent it—to save

you. No! Emily, no!—you cannot love me.”

“We have now little time to waste in exclamation, or assertion,” said

Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion: “if you are yet to learn

how dear you are, and ever must be, to my heart, no assurances of mine

can give you conviction.”

The last words faltered on her lips, and her tears flowed fast. These

words and tears brought, once more, and with instantaneous force,

conviction of her love to Valancourt. He could only exclaim, “Emily!

Emily!” and weep over the hand he pressed to his lips; but she, after

some moments, again roused herself from the indulgence of sorrow, and

said, “I must leave you; it is late, and my absence from the château

may be discovered. Think of me—love me—when I am far away; the belief

of this will be my comfort!”

“Think of you!—love you!” exclaimed Valancourt.

“Try to moderate these transports,” said Emily, “for my sake, try.”

“For your sake!”

“Yes, for my sake,” replied Emily, in a tremulous voice, “I cannot

leave you thus!”

“Then do not leave me!” said Valancourt, with quickness. “Why should we

part, or part for longer than till tomorrow?”

“I am, indeed I am, unequal to these moments,” replied Emily, “you tear

my heart, but I never can consent to this hasty, imprudent proposal!”

“If we could command our time, my Emily, it should not be thus hasty;

we must submit to circumstances.”

“We must indeed! I have already told you all my heart—my spirits are

gone. You allowed the force of my objections, till your tenderness

called up vague terrors, which have given us both unnecessary anguish.

Spare me! do not oblige me to repeat the reasons I have already urged.”

“Spare you!” cried Valancourt, “I am a wretch—a very wretch, that have

felt only for myself!—I! who ought to have shown the fortitude of a

man, who ought to have supported you, I have increased your sufferings

by the conduct of a child! Forgive me, Emily! think of the distraction

of my mind now that I am about to part with all that is dear to me—and

forgive me! When you are gone, I shall recollect with bitter remorse

what I have made you suffer, and shall wish in vain that I could see

you, if only for a moment, that I might sooth your grief.”

Tears again interrupted his voice, and Emily wept with him. “I will

show myself more worthy of your love,” said Valancourt, at length; “I

will not prolong these moments. My Emily—my own Emily! never forget me!

God knows when we shall meet again! I resign you to his care.—O God!—O

God!—protect and bless her!”

He pressed her hand to his heart. Emily sunk almost lifeless on his

bosom, and neither wept, nor spoke. Valancourt, now commanding his own

distress, tried to comfort and reassure her, but she appeared totally

unaffected by what he said, and a sigh, which she uttered, now and

then, was all that proved she had not fainted.

He supported her slowly towards the château, weeping and speaking to

her; but she answered only in sighs, till, having reached the gate,

that terminated the avenue, she seemed to have recovered her

consciousness, and, looking round, perceived how near they were to the

château. “We must part here,” said she, stopping, “Why prolong these

moments? Teach me the fortitude I have forgot.”

Valancourt struggled to assume a composed air. “Farewell, my love!”

said he, in a voice of solemn tenderness—“trust me we shall meet

again—meet for each other—meet to part no more!” His voice faltered,

but, recovering it, he proceeded in a firmer tone. “You know not what I

shall suffer, till I hear from you; I shall omit no opportunity of

conveying to you my letters, yet I tremble to think how few may occur.

And trust me, love, for your dear sake, I will try to bear this absence

with fortitude. O how little I have shown tonight!”

“Farewell!” said Emily faintly. “When you are gone, I shall think of

many things I would have said to you.” “And I of many—many!” said

Valancourt; “I never left you yet, that I did not immediately remember

some question, or some entreaty, or some circumstance, concerning my

love, that I earnestly wished to mention, and feel wretched because I

could not. O Emily! this countenance, on which I now gaze—will, in a

moment, be gone from my eyes, and not all the efforts of fancy will be

able to recall it with exactness. O! what an infinite difference

between this moment and the next!—_now_, I am in your presence, can

behold you! _then_, all will be a dreary blank—and I shall be a

wanderer, exiled from my only home!”

Valancourt again pressed her to his heart, and held her there in

silence, weeping. Tears once again calmed her oppressed mind. They

again bade each other farewell, lingered a moment, and then parted.

Valancourt seemed to force himself from the spot; he passed hastily up

the avenue, and Emily, as she moved slowly towards the château, heard

his distant steps. She listened to the sounds, as they sunk fainter and

fainter, till the melancholy stillness of night alone remained; and

then hurried to her chamber, to seek repose, which, alas! was fled from

her wretchedness.