Chapter: CHAPTER X



     Can such things be,
 And overcome us like a summer's cloud,
 Without our special wonder?
     MACBETH

On the next morning, Emily ordered a fire to be lighted in the stove
of the chamber, where St. Aubert used to sleep; and, as soon as she had
breakfasted, went thither to burn the papers. Having fastened the
door to prevent interruption, she opened the closet where they were
concealed, as she entered which, she felt an emotion of unusual awe,
and stood for some moments surveying it, trembling, and almost afraid to
remove the board. There was a great chair in one corner of the closet,
and, opposite to it, stood the table, at which she had seen her father
sit, on the evening that preceded his departure, looking over, with so
much emotion, what she believed to be these very papers.

The solitary life, which Emily had led of late, and the melancholy
subjects, on which she had suffered her thoughts to dwell, had rendered
her at times sensible to the 'thick-coming fancies' of a mind greatly
enervated. It was lamentable, that her excellent understanding should
have yielded, even for a moment, to the reveries of superstition, or
rather to those starts of imagination, which deceive the senses into
what can be called nothing less than momentary madness. Instances of
this temporary failure of mind had more than once occurred since her
return home; particularly when, wandering through this lonely mansion in
the evening twilight, she had been alarmed by appearances, which would
have been unseen in her more cheerful days. To this infirm state of her
nerves may be attributed what she imagined, when, her eyes glancing
a second time on the arm-chair, which stood in an obscure part of the
closet, the countenance of her dead father appeared there. Emily stood
fixed for a moment to the floor, after which she left the closet.
Her spirits, however, soon returned; she reproached herself with the
weakness of thus suffering interruption in an act of serious importance,
and again opened the door. By the directions which St. Aubert had given
her, she readily found the board he had described in an opposite corner
of the closet, near the window; she distinguished also the line he
had mentioned, and, pressing it as he had bade her, it slid down, and
disclosed the bundle of papers, together with some scattered ones, and
the purse of louis. With a trembling hand she removed them, replaced the
board, paused a moment, and was rising from the floor, when, on looking
up, there appeared to her alarmed fancy the same countenance in the
chair. The illusion, another instance of the unhappy effect which
solitude and grief had gradually produced upon her mind, subdued her
spirits; she rushed forward into the chamber, and sunk almost senseless
into a chair. Returning reason soon overcame the dreadful, but pitiable
attack of imagination, and she turned to the papers, though still with
so little recollection, that her eyes involuntarily settled on the
writing of some loose sheets, which lay open; and she was unconscious,
that she was transgressing her father's strict injunction, till a
sentence of dreadful import awakened her attention and her memory
together. She hastily put the papers from her; but the words, which had
roused equally her curiosity and terror, she could not dismiss from her
thoughts. So powerfully had they affected her, that she even could not
resolve to destroy the papers immediately; and the more she dwelt on the
circumstance, the more it inflamed her imagination. Urged by the most
forcible, and apparently the most necessary, curiosity to enquire
farther, concerning the terrible and mysterious subject, to which she
had seen an allusion, she began to lament her promise to destroy the
papers. For a moment, she even doubted, whether it could justly be
obeyed, in contradiction to such reasons as there appeared to be for
further information. But the delusion was momentary.

'I have given a solemn promise,' said she, 'to observe a solemn
injunction, and it is not my business to argue, but to obey. Let me
hasten to remove the temptation, that would destroy my innocence, and
embitter my life with the consciousness of irremediable guilt, while I
have strength to reject it.'

Thus re-animated with a sense of her duty, she completed the triumph
of her integrity over temptation, more forcible than any she had ever
known, and consigned the papers to the flames. Her eyes watched them as
they slowly consumed, she shuddered at the recollection of the sentence
she had just seen, and at the certainty, that the only opportunity of
explaining it was then passing away for ever.

It was long after this, that she recollected the purse; and as she was
depositing it, unopened, in a cabinet, perceiving that it contained
something of a size larger than coin, she examined it. 'His hand
deposited them here,' said she, as she kissed some pieces of the coin,
and wetted them with her tears, 'his hand--which is now dust!' At the
bottom of the purse was a small packet, having taken out which, and
unfolded paper after paper, she found to be an ivory case, containing
the miniature of a--lady! She started--'The same,' said she, 'my father
wept over!' On examining the countenance she could recollect no person
that it resembled. It was of uncommon beauty, and was characterized
by an expression of sweetness, shaded with sorrow, and tempered by
resignation.

St. Aubert had given no directions concerning this picture, nor had even
named it; she, therefore, thought herself justified in preserving
it. More than once remembering his manner, when he had spoken of the
Marchioness of Villeroi, she felt inclined to believe that this was her
resemblance; yet there appeared no reason why he should have preserved a
picture of that lady, or, having preserved it, why he should lament over
it in a manner so striking and affecting as she had witnessed on the
night preceding his departure.

Emily still gazed on the countenance, examining its features, but she
knew not where to detect the charm that captivated her attention,
and inspired sentiments of such love and pity. Dark brown hair played
carelessly along the open forehead; the nose was rather inclined to
aquiline; the lips spoke in a smile, but it was a melancholy one; the
eyes were blue, and were directed upwards with an expression of peculiar
meekness, while the soft cloud of the brow spoke of the fine sensibility
of the temper.

Emily was roused from the musing mood into which the picture had thrown
her, by the closing of the garden gate; and, on turning her eyes to
the window, she saw Valancourt coming towards the chateau. Her spirits
agitated by the subjects that had lately occupied her mind, she felt
unprepared to see him, and remained a few moments in the chamber to
recover herself.

When she met him in the parlour, she was struck with the change that
appeared in his air and countenance since they had parted in Rousillon,
which twilight and the distress she suffered on the preceding evening
had prevented her from observing. But dejection and languor disappeared,
for a moment, in the smile that now enlightened his countenance, on
perceiving her. 'You see,' said he, 'I have availed myself of the
permission with which you honoured me--of bidding YOU farewell, whom I
had the happiness of meeting only yesterday.'

Emily smiled faintly, and, anxious to say something, asked if he had
been long in Gascony. 'A few days only,' replied Valancourt, while a
blush passed over his cheek. 'I engaged in a long ramble after I had the
misfortune of parting with the friends who had made my wanderings among
the Pyrenees so delightful.'

A tear came to Emily's eye, as Valancourt said this, which he observed;
and, anxious to draw off her attention from the remembrance that had
occasioned it, as well as shocked at his own thoughtlessness, he began
to speak on other subjects, expressing his admiration of the chateau,
and its prospects. Emily, who felt somewhat embarrassed how to support
a conversation, was glad of such an opportunity to continue it on
indifferent topics. They walked down to the terrace, where Valancourt
was charmed with the river scenery, and the views over the opposite
shores of Guienne.

As he leaned on the wall of the terrace, watching the rapid current of
the Garonne, 'I was a few weeks ago,' said he, 'at the source of this
noble river; I had not then the happiness of knowing you, or I should
have regretted your absence--it was a scene so exactly suited to
your taste. It rises in a part of the Pyrenees, still wilder and more
sublime, I think, than any we passed in the way to Rousillon.' He then
described its fall among the precipices of the mountains, where its
waters, augmented by the streams that descend from the snowy summits
around, rush into the Vallee d'Aran, between whose romantic heights it
foams along, pursuing its way to the north west till it emerges upon the
plains of Languedoc. Then, washing the walls of Tholouse, and turning
again to the north west, it assumes a milder character, as it fertilizes
the pastures of Gascony and Guienne, in its progress to the Bay of
Biscay.

Emily and Valancourt talked of the scenes they had passed among
the Pyrenean Alps; as he spoke of which there was often a tremulous
tenderness in his voice, and sometimes he expatiated on them with all
the fire of genius, sometimes would appear scarcely conscious of the
topic, though he continued to speak. This subject recalled forcibly to
Emily the idea of her father, whose image appeared in every landscape,
which Valancourt particularized, whose remarks dwelt upon her memory,
and whose enthusiasm still glowed in her heart. Her silence, at length,
reminded Valancourt how nearly his conversation approached to the
occasion of her grief, and he changed the subject, though for one
scarcely less affecting to Emily. When he admired the grandeur of the
plane-tree, that spread its wide branches over the terrace, and under
whose shade they now sat, she remembered how often she had sat thus with
St. Aubert, and heard him express the same admiration.

'This was a favourite tree with my dear father,' said she; 'he used to
love to sit under its foliage with his family about him, in the fine
evenings of summer.'

Valancourt understood her feelings, and was silent; had she raised her
eyes from the ground she would have seen tears in his. He rose, and
leaned on the wall of the terrace, from which, in a few moments, he
returned to his seat, then rose again, and appeared to be greatly
agitated; while Emily found her spirits so much depressed, that several
of her attempts to renew the conversation were ineffectual. Valancourt
again sat down, but was still silent, and trembled. At length he said,
with a hesitating voice, 'This lovely scene!--I am going to leave--to
leave you--perhaps for ever! These moments may never return; I cannot
resolve to neglect, though I scarcely dare to avail myself of them. Let
me, however, without offending the delicacy of your sorrow, venture to
declare the admiration I must always feel of your goodness--O! that at
some future period I might be permitted to call it love!'

Emily's emotion would not suffer her to reply; and Valancourt, who now
ventured to look up, observing her countenance change, expected to see
her faint, and made an involuntary effort to support her, which recalled
Emily to a sense of her situation, and to an exertion of her spirits.
Valancourt did not appear to notice her indisposition, but, when he
spoke again, his voice told the tenderest love. 'I will not presume,' he
added, 'to intrude this subject longer upon your attention at this time,
but I may, perhaps, be permitted to mention, that these parting moments
would lose much of their bitterness if I might be allowed to hope the
declaration I have made would not exclude me from your presence in
future.'

Emily made another effort to overcome the confusion of her thoughts,
and to speak. She feared to trust the preference her heart acknowledged
towards Valancourt, and to give him any encouragement for hope, on so
short an acquaintance. For though in this narrow period she had observed
much that was admirable in his taste and disposition, and though these
observations had been sanctioned by the opinion of her father, they were
not sufficient testimonies of his general worth to determine her upon a
subject so infinitely important to her future happiness as that, which
now solicited her attention. Yet, though the thought of dismissing
Valancourt was so very painful to her, that she could scarcely endure to
pause upon it, the consciousness of this made her fear the partiality of
her judgment, and hesitate still more to encourage that suit, for which
her own heart too tenderly pleaded. The family of Valancourt, if not
his circumstances, had been known to her father, and known to be
unexceptionable. Of his circumstances, Valancourt himself hinted as far
as delicacy would permit, when he said he had at present little else to
offer but an heart, that adored her. He had solicited only for a distant
hope, and she could not resolve to forbid, though she scarcely dared to
permit it; at length, she acquired courage to say, that she must think
herself honoured by the good opinion of any person, whom her father had
esteemed.

'And was I, then, thought worthy of his esteem?' said Valancourt, in
a voice trembling with anxiety; then checking himself, he added, 'But
pardon the question; I scarcely know what I say. If I might dare to
hope, that you think me not unworthy such honour, and might be permitted
sometimes to enquire after your health, I should now leave you with
comparative tranquillity.'

Emily, after a moment's silence, said, 'I will be ingenuous with you,
for I know you will understand, and allow for my situation; you will
consider it as a proof of my--my esteem that I am so. Though I live
here in what was my father's house, I live here alone. I have, alas! no
longer a parent--a parent, whose presence might sanction your visits.
It is unnecessary for me to point out the impropriety of my receiving
them.'

'Nor will I affect to be insensible of this,' replied Valancourt, adding
mournfully--'but what is to console me for my candour? I distress you,
and would now leave the subject, if I might carry with me a hope of
being some time permitted to renew it, of being allowed to make myself
known to your family.'

Emily was again confused, and again hesitated what to reply; she felt
most acutely the difficulty--the forlornness of her situation, which did
not allow her a single relative, or friend, to whom she could turn
for even a look, that might support and guide her in the present
embarrassing circumstances. Madame Cheron, who was her only relative,
and ought to have been this friend, was either occupied by her own
amusements, or so resentful of the reluctance her niece had shewn to
quit La Vallee, that she seemed totally to have abandoned her.

'Ah! I see,' said Valancourt, after a long pause, during which Emily had
begun, and left unfinished two or three sentences, 'I see that I have
nothing to hope; my fears were too just, you think me unworthy of your
esteem. That fatal journey! which I considered as the happiest period of
my life--those delightful days were to embitter all my future ones. How
often I have looked back to them with hope and fear--yet never till
this moment could I prevail with myself to regret their enchanting
influence.'

His voice faltered, and he abruptly quitted his seat and walked on the
terrace. There was an expression of despair on his countenance, that
affected Emily. The pleadings of her heart overcame, in some degree, her
extreme timidity, and, when he resumed his seat, she said, in an accent
that betrayed her tenderness, 'You do both yourself and me injustice
when you say I think you unworthy of my esteem; I will acknowledge that
you have long possessed it, and--and--'

Valancourt waited impatiently for the conclusion of the sentence,
but the words died on her lips. Her eyes, however, reflected all the
emotions of her heart. Valancourt passed, in an instant, from the
impatience of despair, to that of joy and tenderness. 'O Emily!' he
exclaimed, 'my own Emily--teach me to sustain this moment! Let me seal
it as the most sacred of my life!'

He pressed her hand to his lips, it was cold and trembling; and, raising
her eyes, he saw the paleness of her countenance. Tears came to her
relief, and Valancourt watched in anxious silence over her. In a few
moments, she recovered herself, and smiling faintly through her tears,
said, 'Can you excuse this weakness? My spirits have not yet, I believe,
recovered from the shock they lately received.'

'I cannot excuse myself,' said Valancourt, 'but I will forbear to renew
the subject, which may have contributed to agitate them, now that I can
leave you with the sweet certainty of possessing your esteem.'

Then, forgetting his resolution, he again spoke of himself. 'You know
not,' said he, 'the many anxious hours I have passed near you lately,
when you believed me, if indeed you honoured me with a thought, far
away. I have wandered, near the chateau, in the still hours of the
night, when no eye could observe me. It was delightful to know I was so
near you, and there was something particularly soothing in the thought,
that I watched round your habitation, while you slept. These grounds are
not entirely new to me. Once I ventured within the fence, and spent one
of the happiest, and yet most melancholy hours of my life in walking
under what I believed to be your window.'

Emily enquired how long Valancourt had been in the neighbourhood.
'Several days,' he replied. 'It was my design to avail myself of the
permission M. St. Aubert had given me. I scarcely know how to account
for it; but, though I anxiously wished to do this, my resolution always
failed, when the moment approached, and I constantly deferred my visit.
I lodged in a village at some distance, and wandered with my dogs, among
the scenes of this charming country, wishing continually to meet you,
yet not daring to visit you.'

Having thus continued to converse, without perceiving the flight of
time, Valancourt, at length, seemed to recollect himself. 'I must go,'
said he mournfully, 'but it is with the hope of seeing you again, of
being permitted to pay my respects to your family; let me hear this hope
confirmed by your voice.' 'My family will be happy to see any friend
of my dear father,' said Emily. Valancourt kissed her hand, and still
lingered, unable to depart, while Emily sat silently, with her eyes bent
on the ground; and Valancourt, as he gazed on her, considered that it
would soon be impossible for him to recall, even to his memory, the
exact resemblance of the beautiful countenance he then beheld; at this
moment an hasty footstep approached from behind the plane-tree, and,
turning her eyes, Emily saw Madame Cheron. She felt a blush steal upon
her cheek, and her frame trembled with the emotion of her mind; but she
instantly rose to meet her visitor. 'So, niece!' said Madame Cheron,
casting a look of surprise and enquiry on Valancourt, 'so niece, how
do you do? But I need not ask, your looks tell me you have already
recovered your loss.'

'My looks do me injustice then, Madame, my loss I know can never be
recovered.'

'Well--well! I will not argue with you; I see you have exactly your
father's disposition; and let me tell you it would have been much
happier for him, poor man! if it had been a different one.'

A look of dignified displeasure, with which Emily regarded Madame
Cheron, while she spoke, would have touched almost any other heart;
she made no other reply, but introduced Valancourt, who could scarcely
stifle the resentment he felt, and whose bow Madame Cheron returned with
a slight curtsy, and a look of supercilious examination. After a few
moments he took leave of Emily, in a manner, that hastily expressed his
pain both at his own departure, and at leaving her to the society of
Madame Cheron.

'Who is that young man?' said her aunt, in an accent which equally
implied inquisitiveness and censure. 'Some idle admirer of yours I
suppose; but I believed niece you had a greater sense of propriety, than
to have received the visits of any young man in your present unfriended
situation. Let me tell you the world will observe those things, and it
will talk, aye and very freely too.'

Emily, extremely shocked at this coarse speech, attempted to interrupt
it; but Madame Cheron would proceed, with all the self-importance of a
person, to whom power is new.

'It is very necessary you should be under the eye of some person more
able to guide you than yourself. I, indeed, have not much leisure for
such a task; however, since your poor father made it his last request,
that I should overlook your conduct--I must even take you under my care.
But this let me tell you niece, that, unless you will determine to be
very conformable to my direction, I shall not trouble myself longer
about you.'

Emily made no attempt to interrupt Madame Cheron a second time, grief
and the pride of conscious innocence kept her silent, till her aunt
said, 'I am now come to take you with me to Tholouse; I am sorry
to find, that your poor father died, after all, in such indifferent
circumstances; however, I shall take you home with me. Ah! poor man, he
was always more generous than provident, or he would not have left his
daughter dependent on his relations.'

'Nor has he done so, I hope, madam,' said Emily calmly, 'nor did his
pecuniary misfortunes arise from that noble generosity, which always
distinguished him. The affairs of M. de Motteville may, I trust, yet
be settled without deeply injuring his creditors, and in the meantime I
should be very happy to remain at La Vallee.'

'No doubt you would,' replied Madame Cheron, with a smile of irony, 'and
I shall no doubt consent to this, since I see how necessary tranquillity
and retirement are to restore your spirits. I did not think you capable
of so much duplicity, niece; when you pleaded this excuse for remaining
here, I foolishly believed it to be a just one, nor expected to have
found with you so agreeable a companion as this M. La Val--, I forget
his name.'

Emily could no longer endure these cruel indignities. 'It was a just
one, madam,' said she; 'and now, indeed, I feel more than ever the value
of the retirement I then solicited; and, if the purport of your visit
is only to add insult to the sorrows of your brother's child, she could
well have spared it.'

'I see that I have undertaken a very troublesome task,' said Madame
Cheron, colouring highly. 'I am sure, madam,' said Emily mildly, and
endeavouring to restrain her tears, 'I am sure my father did not mean it
should be such. I have the happiness to reflect, that my conduct under
his eye was such as he often delighted to approve. It would be very
painful to me to disobey the sister of such a parent, and, if you
believe the task will really be so troublesome, I must lament, that it
is yours.'

'Well! niece, fine speaking signifies little. I am willing, in
consideration of my poor brother, to overlook the impropriety of your
late conduct, and to try what your future will be.'

Emily interrupted her, to beg she would explain what was the impropriety
she alluded to.

'What impropriety! why that of receiving the visits of a lover unknown
to your family,' replied Madame Cheron, not considering the impropriety
of which she had herself been guilty, in exposing her niece to the
possibility of conduct so erroneous.

A faint blush passed over Emily's countenance; pride and anxiety
struggled in her breast; and, till she recollected, that appearances
did, in some degree, justify her aunt's suspicions, she could not
resolve to humble herself so far as to enter into the defence of a
conduct, which had been so innocent and undesigning on her part. She
mentioned the manner of Valancourt's introduction to her father; the
circumstances of his receiving the pistol-shot, and of their afterwards
travelling together; with the accidental way, in which she had met him,
on the preceding evening. She owned he had declared a partiality for
her, and that he had asked permission to address her family.

'And who is this young adventurer, pray?' said Madame Cheron, 'and what
are his pretensions?' 'These he must himself explain, madam,' replied
Emily. 'Of his family my father was not ignorant, and I believe it is
unexceptionable.' She then proceeded to mention what she knew concerning
it.

'Oh, then, this it seems is a younger brother,' exclaimed her aunt, 'and
of course a beggar. A very fine tale indeed! And so my brother took a
fancy to this young man after only a few days acquaintance!--but that
was so like him! In his youth he was always taking these likes and
dislikes, when no other person saw any reason for them at all; nay,
indeed, I have often thought the people he disapproved were much more
agreeable than those he admired;--but there is no accounting for tastes.
He was always so much influenced by people's countenances; now I, for my
part, have no notion of this, it is all ridiculous enthusiasm. What has
a man's face to do with his character? Can a man of good character
help having a disagreeable face?'--which last sentence Madame Cheron
delivered with the decisive air of a person who congratulates herself
on having made a grand discovery, and believes the question to be
unanswerably settled.

Emily, desirous of concluding the conversation, enquired if her aunt
would accept some refreshment, and Madame Cheron accompanied her to the
chateau, but without desisting from a topic, which she discussed with so
much complacency to herself, and severity to her niece.

'I am sorry to perceive, niece,' said she, in allusion to somewhat that
Emily had said, concerning physiognomy, 'that you have a great many of
your father's prejudices, and among them those sudden predilections for
people from their looks. I can perceive, that you imagine yourself to be
violently in love with this young adventurer, after an acquaintance of
only a few days. There was something, too, so charmingly romantic in the
manner of your meeting!'

Emily checked the tears, that trembled in her eyes, while she said,
'When my conduct shall deserve this severity, madam, you will do well
to exercise it; till then justice, if not tenderness, should surely
restrain it. I have never willingly offended you; now I have lost my
parents, you are the only person to whom I can look for kindness. Let me
not lament more than ever the loss of such parents.' The last words were
almost stifled by her emotions, and she burst into tears. Remembering
the delicacy and the tenderness of St. Aubert, the happy, happy days
she had passed in these scenes, and contrasting them with the coarse
and unfeeling behaviour of Madame Cheron, and from the future hours
of mortification she must submit to in her presence--a degree of grief
seized her, that almost reached despair. Madame Cheron, more offended
by the reproof which Emily's words conveyed, than touched by the
sorrow they expressed, said nothing, that might soften her grief; but,
notwithstanding an apparent reluctance to receive her niece, she desired
her company. The love of sway was her ruling passion, and she knew it
would be highly gratified by taking into her house a young orphan, who
had no appeal from her decisions, and on whom she could exercise without
controul the capricious humour of the moment.

On entering the chateau, Madame Cheron expressed a desire, that she
would put up what she thought necessary to take to Tholouse, as she
meant to set off immediately. Emily now tried to persuade her to defer
the journey, at least till the next day, and, at length, with much
difficulty, prevailed.

The day passed in the exercise of petty tyranny on the part of Madame
Cheron, and in mournful regret and melancholy anticipation on that of
Emily, who, when her aunt retired to her apartment for the night, went
to take leave of every other room in this her dear native home, which
she was now quitting for she knew not how long, and for a world, to
which she was wholly a stranger. She could not conquer a presentiment,
which frequently occurred to her, this night--that she should never more
return to La Vallee. Having passed a considerable time in what had been
her father's study, having selected some of his favourite authors, to
put up with her clothes, and shed many tears, as she wiped the dust from
their covers, she seated herself in his chair before the reading desk,
and sat lost in melancholy reflection, till Theresa opened the door to
examine, as was her custom before she went to bed, if was all safe. She
started, on observing her young lady, who bade her come in, and then
gave her some directions for keeping the chateau in readiness for her
reception at all times.

'Alas-a-day! that you should leave it!' said Theresa, 'I think you would
be happier here than where you are going, if one may judge.' Emily made
no reply to this remark; the sorrow Theresa proceeded to express at
her departure affected her, but she found some comfort in the simple
affection of this poor old servant, to whom she gave such directions as
might best conduce to her comfort during her own absence.

Having dismissed Theresa to bed, Emily wandered through every lonely
apartment of the chateau, lingering long in what had been her father's
bed-room, indulging melancholy, yet not unpleasing, emotions, and,
having often returned within the door to take another look at it, she
withdrew to her own chamber. From her window she gazed upon the
garden below, shewn faintly by the moon, rising over the tops of the
palm-trees, and, at length, the calm beauty of the night increased a
desire of indulging the mournful sweetness of bidding farewel to the
beloved shades of her childhood, till she was tempted to descend.
Throwing over her the light veil, in which she usually walked, she
silently passed into the garden, and, hastening towards the distant
groves, was glad to breathe once more the air of liberty, and to sigh
unobserved. The deep repose of the scene, the rich scents, that floated
on the breeze, the grandeur of the wide horizon and of the clear
blue arch, soothed and gradually elevated her mind to that sublime
complacency, which renders the vexations of this world so insignificant
and mean in our eyes, that we wonder they have had power for a moment to
disturb us. Emily forgot Madame Cheron and all the circumstances of
her conduct, while her thoughts ascended to the contemplation of those
unnumbered worlds, that lie scattered in the depths of aether, thousands
of them hid from human eyes, and almost beyond the flight of human
fancy. As her imagination soared through the regions of space, and
aspired to that Great First Cause, which pervades and governs all being,
the idea of her father scarcely ever left her; but it was a pleasing
idea, since she resigned him to God in the full confidence of a pure and
holy faith. She pursued her way through the groves to the terrace,
often pausing as memory awakened the pang of affection, and as reason
anticipated the exile, into which she was going.

And now the moon was high over the woods, touching their summits with
yellow light, and darting between the foliage long level beams; while on
the rapid Garonne below the trembling radiance was faintly obscured by
the lightest vapour. Emily long watched the playing lustre, listened to
the soothing murmur of the current, and the yet lighter sounds of the
air, as it stirred, at intervals, the lofty palm-trees. 'How delightful
is the sweet breath of these groves,' said she. 'This lovely scene!--how
often shall I remember and regret it, when I am far away. Alas!
what events may occur before I see it again! O, peaceful, happy
shades!--scenes of my infant delights, of parental tenderness now lost
for ever!--why must I leave ye!--In your retreats I should still find
safety and repose. Sweet hours of my childhood--I am now to leave even
your last memorials! No objects, that would revive your impressions,
will remain for me!'

Then drying her tears and looking up, her thoughts rose again to the
sublime subject she had contemplated; the same divine complacency stole
over her heart, and, hushing its throbs, inspired hope and confidence
and resignation to the will of the Deity, whose works filled her mind
with adoration.

Emily gazed long on the plane-tree, and then seated herself, for the
last time, on the bench under its shade, where she had so often sat with
her parents, and where, only a few hours before, she had conversed
with Valancourt, at the remembrance of whom, thus revived, a mingled
sensation of esteem, tenderness and anxiety rose in her breast. With
this remembrance occurred a recollection of his late confession--that he
had often wandered near her habitation in the night, having even passed
the boundary of the garden, and it immediately occurred to her, that
he might be at this moment in the grounds. The fear of meeting him,
particularly after the declaration he had made, and of incurring a
censure, which her aunt might so reasonably bestow, if it was known,
that she was met by her lover, at this hour, made her instantly leave
her beloved plane-tree, and walk towards the chateau. She cast an
anxious eye around, and often stopped for a moment to examine the
shadowy scene before she ventured to proceed, but she passed on without
perceiving any person, till, having reached a clump of almond trees, not
far from the house, she rested to take a retrospect of the garden, and
to sigh forth another adieu. As her eyes wandered over the landscape she
thought she perceived a person emerge from the groves, and pass slowly
along a moon-light alley that led between them; but the distance, and
the imperfect light would not suffer her to judge with any degree of
certainty whether this was fancy or reality. She continued to gaze for
some time on the spot, till on the dead stillness of the air she heard
a sudden sound, and in the next instant fancied she distinguished
footsteps near her. Wasting not another moment in conjecture, she
hurried to the chateau, and, having reached it, retired to her chamber,
where, as she closed her window she looked upon the garden, and then
again thought she distinguished a figure, gliding between the almond
trees she had just left. She immediately withdrew from the casement,
and, though much agitated, sought in sleep the refreshment of a short
oblivion.

 Emily lights up a fire in her dad's old bedchamber and gets ready to burn. Following St. Aubert's last instructions, she digs up all of his old papers under the floorboards. Whoa, she thinks she sees her father's ghost sitting in his chair. Calm down! As she's in the process of fainting Emily catches a glimpse of writing on the loose sheets of paper. Remember, she's not supposed to see anything. Bad girl, Emily. Hmm, maybe she shouldn't have made that promise to burn the papers without looking at them. Major conscience struggle going on here. Okay. Okay. She's not going to look at the papers. Emily throws them into the fire really quickly so she won't be tempted. Phew. There's also a purse in the cabinet with some money and something else, wrapped in layers of paper. She didn't promise to burn everything, right? Emily unwraps the papers and finds a miniature of a beautiful woman. Uh, what's going on? Why would St. Aubert have a picture of a random not-Emily's-mom woman? Before she can figure out what do, she sees Valancourt heading her way. Quick, hide the contraband! Even though Emily's upset over the picture, Valancourt makes her feel better by bringing up her favorite subject: nature. He's a smart one, that Valancourt. Oh yeah, and he also confesses his love. He is totally, utterly, head-over-heels in love with Emily. Emily's not really sure what's proper under these circumstances, but she definitely likes him too. Valancourt admits that he's been wandering around Emily's house for a while, especially at night. Okay, dude, that's a little weird. When Valancourt and Emily are in the middle of all their love-talk, Madame Cheron stumbles across them. Guess she arrived at a pretty inconvenient moment. Madame Cheron gets a little snippy with Emily and says she's recovered pretty quickly from her dad's death. Who's this new friend of hers, anyway? She sends him away lickety-split. Actually, Madame Cheron first wants to know how much Valancourt is worth. Emily admits that he's from an unexceptional family. Ouch. Madame Cheron plans to shut this thing down, stat. Oh, and she plans to take Emily to Tholouse the next day. On her last night at La Vallee, Emily wanders around being all melancholy. She dwells on childhood memories and remembers the first time she met Valancourt. Wait, doesn't Valancourt like to lurk in the bushes at night? Emily's a little nervous she'll run into him, but she has no such luck. She thinks someone is following her and hurries back to bed. Is that a figure gliding through the garden outside? Spooky.

