Chapter: CHAPTER XIII



  Ah why did Fate his steps decoy
 In stormy paths to roam,
 Remote from all congenial joy!
     BEATTIE

Emily, mean while, 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 pourtrayed 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, or 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, or 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 every body, 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--forever
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 any thing 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, or 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 was 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 shewn 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 any body 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 was
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 Tholouse; 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 Tholouse to the chateau of the Count de
Duvarney, where he had not been since he bade adieu to Emily at
Chateau-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 Chateau-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 Tholouse, 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 farewel. In such melancholy recollections he had been
indulging, when Emily unexpectedly arrived to him on this very terrace,
the evening after her arrival at Tholouse. 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 Tholouse 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 Vallee in
his way to Estuviere, 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 shewn 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 phrensied 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.

 Meanwhile, Em and Theresa are having a sob-fest over the dearly departed Valancourt. They don't know for certain that he's dead, but they're pretty sure. Em even admits that she's still kind of in love with the guy. Just on cue, in walks Valancourt. The guy's got good timing, we'll give him that. His arm's in a sling from being shot, but he's alive. That's what you get for lurking, Valancourt. Theresa can't help spilling the beans that Em's still in love with him, but Em refuses to admit it. It turns out he was hanging out at a surgeon's, getting his arm treated for a while.

