Ah why did Fate his steps decoy
In stormy paths to roam,
Remote from all congenial joy!
BEATTIE
Emily, meanwhile, was still suffering anxiety as to the fate of
Valancourt; but Theresa, having, at length, found a person, whom she
could entrust on her errand to the steward, informed her, that the
messenger would return on the following day; and Emily promised to be
at the cottage, Theresa being too lame to attend her.
In the evening, therefore, Emily set out alone for the cottage, with a
melancholy foreboding, concerning Valancourt, while, perhaps, the gloom
of the hour might contribute to depress her spirits. It was a grey
autumnal evening towards the close of the season; heavy mists partially
obscured the mountains, and a chilling breeze, that sighed among the
beech woods, strewed her path with some of their last yellow leaves.
These, circling in the blast and foretelling the death of the year,
gave an image of desolation to her mind, and, in her fancy, seemed to
announce the death of Valancourt. Of this she had, indeed, more than
once so strong a presentiment, that she was on the point of returning
home, feeling herself unequal to an encounter with the certainty she
anticipated, but, contending with her emotions, she so far commanded
them, as to be able to proceed.
While she walked mournfully on, gazing on the long volumes of vapour,
that poured upon the sky, and watching the swallows, tossed along the
wind, now disappearing among tempestuous clouds, and then emerging, for
a moment, in circles upon the calmer air, the afflictions and
vicissitudes of her late life seemed portrayed in these fleeting
images;—thus had she been tossed upon the stormy sea of misfortune for
the last year, with but short intervals of peace, if peace that could
be called, which was only the delay of evils. And now, when she had
escaped from so many dangers, was become independent of the will of
those, who had oppressed her, and found herself mistress of a large
fortune, now, when she might reasonably have expected happiness, she
perceived that she was as distant from it as ever. She would have
accused herself of weakness and ingratitude in thus suffering a sense
of the various blessings she possessed to be overcome by that of a
single misfortune, had this misfortune affected herself alone; but,
when she had wept for Valancourt even as living, tears of compassion
had mingled with those of regret, and while she lamented a human being
degraded to vice, and consequently to misery, reason and humanity
claimed these tears, and fortitude had not yet taught her to separate
them from those of love; in the present moments, however, it was not
the certainty of his guilt, but the apprehension of his death (of a
death also, to which she herself, however innocently, appeared to have
been in some degree instrumental) that oppressed her. This fear
increased, as the means of certainty concerning it approached; and,
when she came within view of Theresa’s cottage, she was so much
disordered, and her resolution failed her so entirely, that, unable to
proceed, she rested on a bank, beside her path; where, as she sat, the
wind that groaned sullenly among the lofty branches above, seemed to
her melancholy imagination to bear the sounds of distant lamentation,
and, in the pauses of the gust, she still fancied she heard the feeble
and far-off notes of distress. Attention convinced her, that this was
no more than fancy; but the increasing gloom, which seemed the sudden
close of day, soon warned her to depart, and, with faltering steps, she
again moved toward the cottage. Through the casement appeared the
cheerful blaze of a wood fire, and Theresa, who had observed Emily
approaching, was already at the door to receive her.
“It is a cold evening, madam,” said she, “storms are coming on, and I
thought you would like a fire. Do take this chair by the hearth.”
Emily, thanking her for this consideration, sat down, and then, looking
in her face, on which the wood fire threw a gleam, she was struck with
its expression, and, unable to speak, sunk back in her chair with a
countenance so full of woe, that Theresa instantly comprehended the
occasion of it, but she remained silent. “Ah!” said Emily, at length,
“it is unnecessary for me to ask the result of your enquiry, your
silence, and that look, sufficiently explain it;—he is dead!”
“Alas! my dear young lady,” replied Theresa, while tears filled her
eyes, “this world is made up of trouble! the rich have their share as
well as the poor! But we must all endeavour to bear what Heaven
pleases.”
“He is dead, then!”—interrupted Emily—“Valancourt is dead!”
“A-well-a-day! I fear he is,” replied Theresa.
“You fear!” said Emily, “do you only fear?”
“Alas! yes, madam, I fear he is! neither the steward, nor any of the
Epourville family, have heard of him since he left Languedoc, and the
Count is in great affliction about him, for he says he was always
punctual in writing, but that now he has not received a line from him,
since he left Languedoc; he appointed to be at home, three weeks ago,
but he has neither come, nor written, and they fear some accident has
befallen him. Alas! that ever I should live to cry for his death! I am
old, and might have died without being missed, but he”—Emily was faint,
and asked for some water, and Theresa, alarmed by the voice, in which
she spoke, hastened to her assistance, and, while she held the water to
Emily’s lips, continued, “My dear young mistress, do not take it so to
heart; the Chevalier may be alive and well, for all this; let us hope
the best!”
“O no! I cannot hope,” said Emily, “I am acquainted with circumstances,
that will not suffer me to hope. I am somewhat better now, and can hear
what you have to say. Tell me, I entreat, the particulars of what you
know.”
“Stay, till you are a little better, mademoiselle, you look sadly!”
“O no, Theresa, tell me all, while I have the power to hear it,” said
Emily, “tell me all, I conjure you!”
“Well, madam, I will then; but the steward did not say much, for
Richard says he seemed shy of talking about Mons. Valancourt, and what
he gathered was from Gabriel, one of the servants, who said he had
heard it from my lord’s gentleman.”
“What did he hear?” said Emily.
“Why, madam, Richard has but a bad memory, and could not remember half
of it, and, if I had not asked him a great many questions, I should
have heard little indeed. But he says that Gabriel said, that he and
all the other servants were in great trouble about M. Valancourt, for
that he was such a kind young gentleman, they all loved him, as well as
if he had been their own brother—and now, to think what was become of
him! For he used to be so courteous to them all, and, if any of them
had been in fault, M. Valancourt was the first to persuade my lord to
forgive them. And then, if any poor family was in distress, M.
Valancourt was the first, too, to relieve them, though some folks, not
a great way off, could have afforded that much better than he. And
then, said Gabriel, he was so gentle to everybody, and, for all he had
such a noble look with him, he never would command, and call about him,
as some of your quality people do, and we never minded him the less for
that. Nay, says Gabriel, for that matter, we minded him the more, and
would all have run to obey him at a word, sooner than if some folks had
told us what to do at full length; aye, and were more afraid of
displeasing him, too, than of them, that used rough words to us.”
Emily, who no longer considered it to be dangerous to listen to praise,
bestowed on Valancourt, did not attempt to interrupt Theresa, but sat,
attentive to her words, though almost overwhelmed with grief. “My
Lord,” continued Theresa, “frets about M. Valancourt sadly, and the
more, because, they say, he had been rather harsh against him lately.
Gabriel says he had it from my Lord’s valet, that M. Valancourt had
_comported_ himself wildly at Paris, and had spent a great deal of
money, more a great deal than my Lord liked, for he loves money better
than M. Valancourt, who had been led astray sadly. Nay, for that
matter, M. Valancourt had been put into prison at Paris, and my Lord,
says Gabriel, refused to take him out, and said he deserved to suffer;
and, when old Gregoire, the butler, heard of this, he actually bought a
walking-stick to take with him to Paris, to visit his young master; but
the next thing we hear is, that M. Valancourt is coming home. O, it was
a joyful day when he came; but he was sadly altered, and my Lord looked
very cool upon him, and he was very sad, indeed. And, soon after, he
went away again into Languedoc, and, since that time, we have never
seen him.”
Theresa paused, and Emily, sighing deeply, remained with her eyes fixed
upon the floor, without speaking. After a long pause, she enquired what
further Theresa had heard. “Yet why should I ask?” she added; “what you
have already told is too much. O Valancourt! thou art gone—for ever
gone! and I—I have murdered thee!” These words, and the countenance of
despair which accompanied them, alarmed Theresa, who began to fear,
that the shock of the intelligence Emily had just received, had
affected her senses. “My dear young lady, be composed,” said she, “and
do not say such frightful words. You murder M. Valancourt,—dear heart!”
Emily replied only by a heavy sigh.
“Dear lady, it breaks my heart to see you look so,” said Theresa, “do
not sit with your eyes upon the ground, and all so pale and melancholy;
it frightens me to see you.” Emily was still silent, and did not appear
to hear anything that was said to her. “Besides, mademoiselle,”
continued Theresa, “M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet, for what
we know.”
At the mention of his name, Emily raised her eyes, and fixed them, in a
wild gaze, upon Theresa, as if she was endeavouring to understand what
had been said. “Aye, my dear lady,” said Theresa, mistaking the meaning
of this considerate air, “M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet.”
On the repetition of these words, Emily comprehended their import, but,
instead of producing the effect intended, they seemed only to heighten
her distress. She rose hastily from her chair, paced the little room,
with quick steps, and, often sighing deeply, clasped her hands, and
shuddered.
Meanwhile, Theresa, with simple, but honest affection, endeavoured to
comfort her; put more wood on the fire, stirred it up into a brighter
blaze, swept the hearth, set the chair, which Emily had left, in a
warmer situation, and then drew forth from a cupboard a flask of wine.
“It is a stormy night, madam,” said she, “and blows cold—do come nearer
the fire, and take a glass of this wine; it will comfort you, as it has
done me, often and often, for it is not such wine as one gets every
day; it is rich Languedoc, and the last of six flasks that M.
Valancourt sent me, the night before he left Gascony for Paris. They
have served me, ever since, as cordials, and I never drink it, but I
think of him, and what kind words he said to me when he gave them.
‘Theresa,’ says he, ‘you are not young now, and should have a glass of
good wine, now and then. I will send you a few flasks, and, when you
taste them, you will sometimes remember me your friend.’ Yes—those were
his very words—me your friend!” Emily still paced the room, without
seeming to hear what Theresa said, who continued speaking. “And I have
remembered him, often enough, poor young gentleman!—for he gave me this
roof for a shelter, and that, which has supported me. Ah! he is in
heaven, with my blessed master, if ever saint was!”
Theresa’s voice faltered; she wept, and set down the flask, unable to
pour out the wine. Her grief seemed to recall Emily from her own, who
went towards her, but then stopped, and, having gazed on her, for a
moment, turned suddenly away, as if overwhelmed by the reflection, that
it was Valancourt, whom Theresa lamented.
While she yet paced the room, the still, soft note of an oboe, or
flute, was heard mingling with the blast, the sweetness of which
affected Emily’s spirits; she paused a moment in attention; the tender
tones, as they swelled along the wind, till they were lost again in the
ruder gust, came with a plaintiveness, that touched her heart, and she
melted into tears.
“Aye,” said Theresa, drying her eyes, “there is Richard, our
neighbour’s son, playing on the oboe; it is sad enough, to hear such
sweet music now.” Emily continued to weep, without replying. “He often
plays of an evening,” added Theresa, “and, sometimes, the young folks
dance to the sound of his oboe. But, dear young lady! do not cry so;
and pray take a glass of this wine,” continued she, pouring some into a
glass, and handing it to Emily, who reluctantly took it.
“Taste it for M. Valancourt’s sake,” said Theresa, as Emily lifted the
glass to her lips, “for he gave it me, you know, madam.” Emily’s hand
trembled, and she spilt the wine as she withdrew it from her lips. “For
whose sake!—who gave the wine?” said she in a faltering voice. “M.
Valancourt, dear lady. I knew you would be pleased with it. It is the
last flask I have left.”
Emily set the wine upon the table, and burst into tears, while Theresa,
disappointed and alarmed, tried to comfort her; but she only waved her
hand, entreated she might be left alone, and wept the more.
A knock at the cottage door prevented Theresa from immediately obeying
her mistress, and she was going to open it, when Emily, checking her,
requested she would not admit any person; but, afterwards,
recollecting, that she had ordered her servant to attend her home, she
said it was only Philippe, and endeavoured to restrain her tears, while
Theresa opened the door.
A voice, that spoke without, drew Emily’s attention. She listened,
turned her eyes to the door, when a person now appeared, and
immediately a bright gleam, that flashed from the fire,
discovered—Valancourt!
Emily, on perceiving him, started from her chair, trembled, and,
sinking into it again, became insensible to all around her.
A scream from Theresa now told, that she knew Valancourt, whom her
imperfect sight, and the duskiness of the place had prevented her from
immediately recollecting; but his attention was immediately called from
her to the person, whom he saw, falling from a chair near the fire;
and, hastening to her assistance,—he perceived, that he was supporting
Emily! The various emotions, that seized him upon thus unexpectedly
meeting with her, from whom he had believed he had parted for ever, and
on beholding her pale and lifeless in his arms—may, perhaps, be
imagined, though they could neither be then expressed, nor now
described, any more than Emily’s sensations, when, at length, she
unclosed her eyes, and, looking up, again saw Valancourt. The intense
anxiety, with which he regarded her, was instantly changed to an
expression of mingled joy and tenderness, as his eye met hers, and he
perceived, that she was reviving. But he could only exclaim, “Emily!”
as he silently watched her recovery, while she averted her eye, and
feebly attempted to withdraw her hand; but, in these the first moments,
which succeeded to the pangs his supposed death had occasioned her, she
forgot every fault, which had formerly claimed indignation, and
beholding Valancourt such as he had appeared, when he won her early
affection, she experienced emotions of only tenderness and joy. This,
alas! was but the sunshine of a few short moments; recollections rose,
like clouds, upon her mind, and, darkening the illusive image, that
possessed it, she again beheld Valancourt, degraded—Valancourt unworthy
of the esteem and tenderness she had once bestowed upon him; her
spirits faltered, and, withdrawing her hand, she turned from him to
conceal her grief, while he, yet more embarrassed and agitated,
remained silent.
A sense of what she owed to herself restrained her tears, and taught
her soon to overcome, in some degree, the emotions of mingled joy and
sorrow, that contended at her heart, as she rose, and, having thanked
him for the assistance he had given her, bade Theresa good evening. As
she was leaving the cottage, Valancourt, who seemed suddenly awakened
as from a dream, entreated, in a voice, that pleaded powerfully for
compassion, a few moments attention. Emily’s heart, perhaps, pleaded as
powerfully, but she had resolution enough to resist both, together with
the clamorous entreaties of Theresa, that she would not venture home
alone in the dark, and had already opened the cottage door, when the
pelting storm compelled her to obey their requests.
Silent and embarrassed, she returned to the fire, while Valancourt,
with increasing agitation, paced the room, as if he wished, yet feared,
to speak, and Theresa expressed without restraint her joy and wonder
upon seeing him.
“Dear heart! sir,” said she, “I never was so surprised and overjoyed in
my life. We were in great tribulation before you came, for we thought
you were dead, and were talking, and lamenting about you, just when you
knocked at the door. My young mistress there was crying, fit to break
her heart—”
Emily looked with much displeasure at Theresa, but, before she could
speak, Valancourt, unable to repress the emotion, which Theresa’s
imprudent discovery occasioned, exclaimed, “O my Emily! am I then still
dear to you! Did you, indeed, honour me with a thought—a tear? O
heavens! you weep—you weep now!”
“Theresa, sir,” said Emily, with a reserved air, and trying to conquer
her tears, “has reason to remember you with gratitude, and she was
concerned, because she had not lately heard of you. Allow me to thank
you for the kindness you have shown her, and to say, that, since I am
now upon the spot, she must not be further indebted to you.”
“Emily,” said Valancourt, no longer master of his emotions, “is it thus
you meet him, whom once you meant to honour with your hand—thus you
meet him, who has loved you—suffered for you?—Yet what do I say? Pardon
me, pardon me, mademoiselle St. Aubert, I know not what I utter. I have
no longer any claim upon your remembrance—I have forfeited every
pretension to your esteem, your love. Yes! let me not forget, that I
once possessed your affections, though to know that I have lost them,
is my severest affliction. Affliction—do I call it!—that is a term of
mildness.”
“Dear heart!” said Theresa, preventing Emily from replying, “talk of
once having her affections! Why, my dear young lady loves you now,
better than she does anybody in the whole world, though she pretends to
deny it.”
“This is insupportable!” said Emily; “Theresa, you know not what you
say. Sir, if you respect my tranquillity, you will spare me from the
continuance of this distress.”
“I do respect your tranquillity too much, voluntarily to interrupt it,”
replied Valancourt, in whose bosom pride now contended with tenderness;
“and will not be a voluntary intruder. I would have entreated a few
moments attention—yet I know not for what purpose. You have ceased to
esteem me, and to recount to you my sufferings will degrade me more,
without exciting even your pity. Yet I have been, O Emily! I am indeed
very wretched!” added Valancourt, in a voice, that softened from
solemnity into grief.
“What! is my dear young master going out in all this rain!” said
Theresa. “No, he shall not stir a step. Dear! dear! to see how
gentlefolks can afford to throw away their happiness! Now, if you were
poor people, there would be none of this. To talk of unworthiness, and
not caring about one another, when I know there are not such a
kind-hearted lady and gentleman in the whole province, nor any that
love one another half so well, if the truth was spoken!”
Emily, in extreme vexation, now rose from her chair, “I must be gone,”
said she, “the storm is over.”
“Stay, Emily, stay, mademoiselle St. Aubert!” said Valancourt,
summoning all his resolution, “I will no longer distress you by my
presence. Forgive me, that I did not sooner obey you, and, if you can,
sometimes, pity one, who, in losing you—has lost all hope of peace! May
you be happy, Emily, however wretched I remain, happy as my fondest
wish would have you!”
His voice faltered with the last words, and his countenance changed,
while, with a look of ineffable tenderness and grief, he gazed upon her
for an instant, and then quitted the cottage.
“Dear heart! dear heart!” cried Theresa, following him to the door,
“why, Monsieur Valancourt! how it rains! what a night is this to turn
him out in! Why it will give him his death; and it was but now you were
crying, mademoiselle, because he was dead. Well! young ladies do change
their mind in a minute, as one may say!”
Emily made no reply, for she heard not what was said, while, lost in
sorrow and thought, she remained in her chair by the fire, with her
eyes fixed, and the image of Valancourt still before them.
“M. Valancourt is sadly altered! madam,” said Theresa; “he looks so
thin to what he used to do, and so melancholy, and then he wears his
arm in a sling.”
Emily raised her eyes at these words, for she had not observed this
last circumstance, and she now did not doubt, that Valancourt had
received the shot of her gardener at Thoulouse; with this conviction
her pity for him returning, she blamed herself for having occasioned
him to leave the cottage, during the storm.
Soon after her servants arrived with the carriage, and Emily, having
censured Theresa for her thoughtless conversation to Valancourt, and
strictly charging her never to repeat any hints of the same kind to
him, withdrew to her home, thoughtful and disconsolate.
Meanwhile, Valancourt had returned to a little inn of the village,
whither he had arrived only a few moments before his visit to Theresa’s
cottage, on the way from Thoulouse to the château of the Count de
Duvarney, where he had not been since he bade adieu to Emily at
Château-le-Blanc, in the neighbourhood of which he had lingered for a
considerable time, unable to summon resolution enough to quit a place,
that contained the object most dear to his heart. There were times,
indeed, when grief and despair urged him to appear again before Emily,
and, regardless of his ruined circumstances, to renew his suit. Pride,
however, and the tenderness of his affection, which could not long
endure the thought of involving her in his misfortunes, at length, so
far triumphed over passion, that he relinquished this desperate design,
and quitted Château-le-Blanc. But still his fancy wandered among the
scenes, which had witnessed his early love, and, on his way to Gascony,
he stopped at Thoulouse, where he remained when Emily arrived,
concealing, yet indulging his melancholy in the gardens, where he had
formerly passed with her so many happy hours; often recurring, with
vain regret, to the evening before her departure for Italy, when she
had so unexpectedly met him on the terrace, and endeavouring to recall
to his memory every word and look, which had then charmed him, the
arguments he had employed to dissuade her from the journey, and the
tenderness of their last farewell. In such melancholy recollections he
had been indulging, when Emily unexpectedly arrived to him on this very
terrace, the evening after her arrival at Thoulouse. His emotions, on
thus seeing her, can scarcely be imagined; but he so far overcame the
first promptings of love, that he forbore to discover himself, and
abruptly quitted the gardens. Still, however, the vision he had seen
haunted his mind; he became more wretched than before, and the only
solace of his sorrow was to return in the silence of the night; to
follow the paths which he believed her steps had pressed, during the
day; and, to watch round the habitation where she reposed. It was in
one of these mournful wanderings, that he had received by the fire of
the gardener, who mistook him for a robber, a wound in his arm, which
had detained him at Thoulouse till very lately, under the hands of a
surgeon. There, regardless of himself and careless of his friends,
whose late unkindness had urged him to believe, that they were
indifferent as to his fate, he remained, without informing them of his
situation; and now, being sufficiently recovered to bear travelling, he
had taken La Vallée in his way to Estuvière, the Count’s residence,
partly for the purpose of hearing of Emily, and of being again near
her, and partly for that of enquiring into the situation of poor old
Theresa, who, he had reason to suppose, had been deprived of her
stipend, small as it was, and which enquiry had brought him to her
cottage, when Emily happened to be there.
This unexpected interview, which had at once shown him the tenderness
of her love and the strength of her resolution, renewed all the
acuteness of the despair, that had attended their former separation,
and which no effort of reason could teach him, in these moments, to
subdue. Her image, her look, the tones of her voice, all dwelt on his
fancy, as powerfully as they had late appeared to his senses, and
banished from his heart every emotion, except those of love and
despair.
Before the evening concluded, he returned to Theresa’s cottage, that he
might hear her talk of Emily, and be in the place, where she had so
lately been. The joy, felt and expressed by that faithful servant, was
quickly changed to sorrow, when she observed, at one moment, his wild
and frenzied look, and, at another, the dark melancholy, that overhung
him.
After he had listened, and for a considerable time, to all she had to
relate, concerning Emily, he gave Theresa nearly all the money he had
about him, though she repeatedly refused it, declaring, that her
mistress had amply supplied her wants; and then, drawing a ring of
value from his finger, he delivered it her with a solemn charge to
present it to Emily, of whom he entreated, as a last favour, that she
would preserve it for his sake, and sometimes, when she looked upon it,
remember the unhappy giver.
Theresa wept, as she received the ring, but it was more from sympathy,
than from any presentiment of evil; and before she could reply,
Valancourt abruptly left the cottage. She followed him to the door,
calling upon his name and entreating him to return; but she received no
answer, and saw him no more.