The Mysteries of Udolpho

  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 Phoebus 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 verysplendid entertainments, which Madame Clairval had given, and thegeneral adulation, which was paid her, made the former more anxious thanbefore to secure an alliance, that would so much exalt her in her ownopinion and in that of the world. She proposed terms for the immediatemarriage of her niece, and offered to give Emily a dower, providedMadame Clairval observed equal terms, on the part of her nephew. MadameClairval listened to the proposal, and, considering that Emily was theapparent heiress of her aunt's wealth, accepted it. Meanwhile, Emilyknew nothing of the transaction, till Madame Cheron informed her, thatshe must make preparation for the nuptials, which would be celebratedwithout further delay; then, astonished and wholly unable to account forthis sudden conclusion, which Valancourt had not solicited (for he wasignorant of what had passed between the elder ladies, and had notdared to hope such good fortune), she decisively objected to it. MadameCheron, however, quite as jealous of contradiction now, as she had beenformerly, contended for a speedy marriage with as much vehemence as shehad formerly opposed whatever had the most remote possibility of leadingto it; and Emily's scruples disappeared, when she again saw Valancourt,who was now informed of the happiness, designed for him, and came toclaim a promise of it from herself.

  While preparations were making for these nuptials, Montoni became theacknowledged lover of Madame Cheron; and, though Madame Clairval wasmuch displeased, when she heard of the approaching connection, and waswilling to prevent that of Valancourt with Emily, her conscience toldher, that she had no right thus to trifle with their peace, and MadameClairval, though a woman of fashion, was far less advanced thanher friend in the art of deriving satisfaction from distinction andadmiration, rather than from conscience.

  Emily observed with concern the ascendancy, which Montoni had acquiredover 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 ofspring, whose colours were now spread upon the landscape, and listeningto Valancourt, who was reading, but who often laid aside the book toconverse, she received a summons to attend Madame Cheron immediately,and had scarcely entered the dressing-room, when she observed withsurprise the dejection of her aunt's countenance, and the contrastedgaiety of her dress. 'So, niece!'--said Madame, and she stopped undersome 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 SignorMontoni as your uncle--we were married this morning.'

  Astonished--not so much at the marriage, as at the secrecy with whichit had been concluded, and the agitation with which it was announced,Emily, at length, attributed the privacy to the wish of Montoni, ratherthan of her aunt. His wife, however, intended, that the contrary shouldbe 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 toannounce to my servants that they must receive the Signor Montoni fortheir master.' Emily made a feeble attempt to congratulate her on theseapparently imprudent nuptials. 'I shall now celebrate my marriage withsome splendour,' continued Madame Montoni, 'and to save time I shallavail myself of the preparation that has been made for yours, whichwill, of course, be delayed a little while. Such of your wedding clothesas are ready I shall expect you will appear in, to do honour to thisfestival. I also wish you to inform Monsieur Valancourt, that I havechanged my name, and he will acquaint Madame Clairval. In a few daysI shall give a grand entertainment, at which I shall request theirpresence.'

  Emily was so lost in surprise and various thought, that she made MadameMontoni scarcely any reply, but, at her desire, she returned to informValancourt of what had passed. Surprise was not his predominant emotionon hearing of these hasty nuptials; and, when he learned, that they wereto be the means of delaying his own, and that the very ornaments of thechateau, which had been prepared to grace the nuptial day of his Emily,were to be degraded to the celebration of Madame Montoni's, grief andindignation agitated him alternately. He could conceal neither from theobservation of Emily, whose efforts to abstract him from these seriousemotions, and to laugh at the apprehensive considerations, that assailedhim, were ineffectual; and, when, at length, he took leave, there was anearnest tenderness in his manner, that extremely affected her; she evenshed tears, when he disappeared at the end of the terrace, yet knew notexactly why she should do so.

  Montoni now took possession of the chateau, and the command of itsinhabitants, with the ease of a man, who had long considered it to behis own. His friend Cavigni, who had been extremely serviceable,in having paid Madame Cheron the attention and flattery, which sherequired, but from which Montoni too often revolted, had apartmentsassigned to him, and received from the domestics an equal degree ofobedience with the master of the mansion.

  Within a few days, Madame Montoni, as she had promised, gave amagnificent entertainment to a very numerous company, among whom wasValancourt; but at which Madame Clairval excused herself from attending.There was a concert, ball and supper. Valancourt was, of course, Emily'spartner, and though, when he gave a look to the decorations of theapartments, he could not but remember, that they were designed forother festivities, than those they now contributed to celebrate, heendeavoured to check his concern by considering, that a littlewhile only would elapse before they would be given to their originaldestination. During this evening, Madame Montoni danced, laughedand talked incessantly; while Montoni, silent, reserved and somewhathaughty, seemed weary of the parade, and of the frivolous company it haddrawn together.

  This was the first and the last entertainment, given in celebrationof their nuptials. Montoni, though the severity of his temper and thegloominess of his pride prevented him from enjoying such festivities,was extremely willing to promote them. It was seldom, that he could meetin any company a man of more address, and still seldomer one of moreunderstanding, than himself; the balance of advantage in such parties,or in the connections, which might arise from them, must, therefore, beon his side; and, knowing, as he did, the selfish purposes, for whichthey are generally frequented, he had no objection to measure histalents of dissimulation with those of any other competitor fordistinction and plunder. But his wife, who, when her own interest wasimmediately concerned, had sometimes more discernment than vanity,acquired a consciousness of her inferiority to other women, in personalattractions, which, uniting with the jealousy natural to the discovery,counteracted his readiness for mingling with all the parties Tholousecould afford. Till she had, as she supposed, the affections of anhusband to lose, she had no motive for discovering the unwelcome truth,and it had never obtruded itself upon her; but, now that it influencedher policy, she opposed her husband's inclination for company, with themore eagerness, because she believed him to be really as well receivedin the female society of the place, as, during his addresses to her, hehad affected to be.

  A few weeks only had elapsed, since the marriage, when Madame Montoniinformed Emily, that the Signor intended to return to Italy, as soon asthe necessary preparation could be made for so long a journey. 'We shallgo to Venice,' said she, 'where the Signor has a fine mansion, and fromthence 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 bedelighted with this journey.'

  'Am I then to be of the party, madam?' said Emily, with extreme surpriseand emotion. 'Most certainly,' replied her aunt, 'how could you imaginewe 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 soonwill be so. Signor Montoni is gone to acquaint Madame Clairval of ourjourney, and to say, that the proposed connection between the familiesmust 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 whomshe was on the point of being united for life, added to the dismay,which she must otherwise have suffered at such intelligence. Whenshe could speak, she asked the cause of the sudden change in Madame'ssentiments towards Valancourt, but the only reply she could obtain was,that the Signor had forbade the connection, considering it to be greatlyinferior 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, andI was overpersuaded, or I should not have given my consent to theconnection. I was weak enough--I am so foolish sometimes!--to sufferother people's uneasiness to affect me, and so my better judgmentyielded to your affliction. But the Signor has very properly pointed outthe folly of this, and he shall not have to reprove me a second time. Iam determined, that you shall submit to those, who know how to guide youbetter than yourself--I am determined, that you shall be conformable.'

  Emily would have been astonished at the assertions of this eloquentspeech, had not her mind been so overwhelmed by the sudden shock it hadreceived, that she scarcely heard a word of what was latterly addressedto her. Whatever were the weaknesses of Madame Montoni, she might haveavoided to accuse herself with those of compassion and tenderness to thefeelings of others, and especially to those of Emily. It was the sameambition, that lately prevailed upon her to solicit an alliance withMadame Clairval's family, which induced her to withdraw from it, nowthat 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 eitherremonstrance, or entreaty on this topic; and when, at length, sheattempted the latter, her emotion overcame her speech, and she retiredto her apartment, to think, if in the present state of her mind to thinkwas possible, upon this sudden and overwhelming subject. It was verylong, before her spirits were sufficiently composed to permit thereflection, which, when it came, was dark and even terrible. She saw,that Montoni sought to aggrandise himself in his disposal of her, andit occurred, that his friend Cavigni was the person, for whom he wasinterested. The prospect of going to Italy was still rendered darker,when she considered the tumultuous situation of that country, thentorn by civil commotion, where every petty state was at war with itsneighbour, and even every castle liable to the attack of an invader.She considered the person, to whose immediate guidance she wouldbe committed, and the vast distance, that was to separate her fromValancourt, and, at the recollection of him, every other image vanishedfrom her mind, and every thought was again obscured by grief.

  In this perturbed state she passed some hours, and, when she wassummoned to dinner, she entreated permission to remain in her ownapartment; but Madame Montoni was alone, and the request was refused.Emily and her aunt said little during the repast; the one occupiedby her griefs, the other engrossed by the disappointment, which theunexpected absence of Montoni occasioned; for not only was her vanitypiqued by the neglect, but her jealousy alarmed by what she consideredas a mysterious engagement. When the cloth was drawn and they werealone, Emily renewed the mention of Valancourt; but her aunt, neithersoftened to pity, or awakened to remorse, became enraged, that her willshould be opposed, and the authority of Montoni questioned, though thiswas done by Emily with her usual gentleness, who, after a long, andtorturing conversation, retired in tears.

  As she crossed the hall, a person entered it by the great door, whom, asher eyes hastily glanced that way, she imagined to be Montoni, and shewas passing on with quicker steps, when she heard the well-known voiceof 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 ofhis 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 towhere we may converse. But you tremble--you are ill! Let me lead you toa seat.'

  He observed the open door of an apartment, and hastily took her handto lead her thither; but she attempted to withdraw it, and said, with alanguid smile, 'I am better already; if you wish to see my aunt sheis in the dining-parlour.' 'I must speak with YOU, my Emily,' repliedValancourt, 'Good God! is it already come to this? Are you indeed sowilling to resign me?' But this is an improper place--I am overheard.Let me entreat your attention, if only for a few minutes.'--'When youhave seen my aunt,' said Emily. 'I was wretched enough when I camehither,' exclaimed Valancourt, 'do not increase my misery by thiscoldness--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 withMadame Montoni. 'Where is her husband, where, then, is Montoni?' saidValancourt, in an altered tone: 'it is he, to whom I must speak.'

  Emily, terrified for the consequence of the indignation, that flashedin his eyes, tremblingly assured him, that Montoni was not at home,and entreated he would endeavour to moderate his resentment. At thetremulous accents of her voice, his eyes softened instantly fromwildness into tenderness. 'You are ill, Emily,' said he, 'they willdestroy 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 herfor his own safety, that she was now only anxious to prevent theconsequences of his just resentment. He listened to her entreaties,with attention, but replied to them only with looks of despondency andtenderness, concealing, as much as possible, the sentiments hefelt towards Montoni, that he might soothe the apprehensions, whichdistressed her. But she saw the veil he had spread over his resentment,and, his assumed tranquillity only alarming her more, she urged, atlength, the impolicy of forcing an interview with Montoni, and oftaking any measure, which might render their separation irremediable.Valancourt yielded to these remonstrances, and her affecting entreatiesdrew from him a promise, that, however Montoni might persist in hisdesign of disuniting them, he would not seek to redress his wrongs byviolence. 'For my sake,' said Emily, 'let the consideration of what Ishould suffer deter you from such a mode of revenge!' 'For your sake,Emily,' replied Valancourt, his eyes filling with tears of tendernessand 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 notexpect, that I can tamely submit to the authority of Montoni; if Icould, I should be unworthy of you. Yet, O Emily! how long may hecondemn me to live without you,--how long may it be before you return toFrance!'

  Emily endeavoured to sooth him with assurances of her unalterableaffection, and by representing, that, in little more than a year, sheshould be her own mistress, as far as related to her aunt, from whoseguardianship her age would then release her; assurances, which gavelittle consolation to Valancourt, who considered, that she would thenbe in Italy and in the power of those, whose dominion over her would notcease with their rights; but he affected to be consoled by them.Emily, comforted by the promise she had obtained, and by his apparentcomposure, was about to leave him, when her aunt entered the room.She threw a glance of sharp reproof upon her niece, who immediatelywithdrew, and of haughty displeasure upon Valancourt.

  'This is not the conduct I should have expected from you, sir;' saidshe, 'I did not expect to see you in my house, after you had beeninformed, that your visits were no longer agreeable, much less, thatyou would seek a clandestine interview with my niece, and that she wouldgrant one.'

  Valancourt, perceiving it necessary to vindicate Emily from such adesign, explained, that the purpose of his own visit had been to requestan 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, andadded, that she was so sensible of the folly of her former consent,that, to prevent the possibility of a repetition, she had committed theaffair entirely to the conduct of Signor Montoni.

  The feeling eloquence of Valancourt, however, at length, made hersensible in some measure of her unworthy conduct, and she becamesusceptible to shame, but not remorse: she hated Valancourt, whoawakened her to this painful sensation, and, in proportion as she grewdissatisfied with herself, her abhorrence of him increased. This wasalso the more inveterate, because his tempered words and manner weresuch as, without accusing her, compelled her to accuse herself, andneither left her a hope, that the odious portrait was the caricatureof his prejudice, or afforded her an excuse for expressing the violentresentment, with which she contemplated it. At length, her anger roseto such an height, that Valancourt was compelled to leave the houseabruptly, 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, whocould feel the pain of guilt, without the humility of repentance?

  To Montoni he looked with equal despondency, since it was nearlyevident, that this plan of separation originated with him, and it wasnot probable, that he would relinquish his own views to entreaties, orremonstrances, which he must have foreseen and have been prepared toresist. Yet, remembering his promise to Emily, and more solicitous,concerning his love, than jealous of his consequence, Valancourt wascareful to do nothing that might unnecessarily irritate Montoni, hewrote 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 approbationto Valancourt's marriage, it was in the belief, that Emily would be theheiress of Madame Montoni's fortune; and, though, upon the nuptialsof the latter, when she perceived the fallacy of this expectation, herconscience had withheld her from adopting any measure to prevent theunion, her benevolence was not sufficiently active to impel her towardsany step, that might now promote it. She was, on the contrary, secretlypleased, that Valancourt was released from an engagement, which sheconsidered to be as inferior, in point of fortune, to his merit, ashis alliance was thought by Montoni to be humiliating to the beauty ofEmily; and, though her pride was wounded by this rejection of a memberof her family, she disdained to shew resentment otherwise, than bysilence.

  Montoni, in his reply to Valancourt, said, that as an interview couldneither remove the objections of the one, or overcome the wishes of theother, 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 promiseto her, Valancourt restrained the impulse, that urged him to the houseof Montoni, to demand what had been denied to his entreaties. He onlyrepeated his solicitations to see him; seconding them with all thearguments his situation could suggest. Thus several days passed, inremonstrance, 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 inhis refusal, and was neither softened to pity by the agony, whichValancourt's letters pourtrayed, or awakened to a repentance of hisown injustice by the strong remonstrances he employed. At length,Valancourt's letters were returned unopened, and then, in the firstmoments of passionate despair, he forgot every promise to Emily, exceptthe solemn one, which bound him to avoid violence, and hastened toMontoni's chateau, determined to see him by whatever other means mightbe necessary. Montoni was denied, and Valancourt, when he afterwardsenquired for Madame, and Ma'amselle St. Aubert, was absolutely refusedadmittance by the servants. Not choosing to submit himself to a contestwith these, he, at length, departed, and, returning home in a state ofmind approaching to frenzy, wrote to Emily of what had passed, expressedwithout restraint all the agony of his heart, and entreated, that, sincehe must not otherwise hope to see her immediately, she would allow himan interview unknown to Montoni. Soon after he had dispatched this, hispassions becoming more temperate, he was sensible of the error he hadcommitted in having given Emily a new subject of distress in the strongmention of his own suffering, and would have given half the world, hadit been his, to recover the letter. Emily, however, was spared thepain she must have received from it by the suspicious policy of MadameMontoni, who had ordered, that all letters, addressed to her niece,should be delivered to herself, and who, after having perused this andindulged the expressions of resentment, which Valancourt's mention ofMontoni provoked, had consigned it to the flames.

  Montoni, meanwhile, every day more impatient to leave France, gaverepeated orders for dispatch to the servants employed in preparationsfor the journey, and to the persons, with whom he was transacting someparticular business. He preserved a steady silence to the letters inwhich Valancourt, despairing of greater good, and having subdued thepassion, that had transgressed against his policy, solicited only theindulgence of being allowed to bid Emily farewell. But, when the latter[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 everyconsideration of prudence, he dared, in a second letter to Emily, topropose a clandestine marriage. This also was transmitted to MadameMontoni, and the last day of Emily's stay at Tholouse arrived, withoutaffording 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 sunkinto that kind of stupor, with which sudden and irremediable misfortunesometimes overwhelms the mind. Loving him with the tenderest affection,and having long been accustomed to consider him as the friend andcompanion of all her future days, she had no ideas of happiness, thatwere 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 couldscarcely hear of each other's existence; and all this in obedience tothe will of a stranger, for such as Montoni, and of a person, who hadbut lately been anxious to hasten their nuptials! It was in vain, thatshe endeavoured to subdue her grief, and resign herself to an event,which she could not avoid. The silence of Valancourt afflicted more thanit surprised her, since she attributed it to its just occasion; but,when the day, preceding that, on which she was to quit Tholouse,arrived, and she had heard no mention of his being permitted to takeleave of her, grief overcame every consideration, that had made herreluctant to speak of him, and she enquired of Madame Montoni, whetherthis consolation had been refused. Her aunt informed her that it had,adding, that, after the provocation she had herself received fromValancourt, in their last interview, and the persecution, which theSignor had suffered from his letters, no entreaties should avail toprocure it.

  'If the Chevalier expected this favour from us,' said she, 'he shouldhave conducted himself in a very different manner; he should have waitedpatiently, till he knew whether we were disposed to grant it, and nothave come and reproved me, because I did not think proper to bestowmy niece upon him,--and then have persisted in troubling the Signor,because he did not think proper to enter into any dispute aboutso childish an affair. His behaviour throughout has been extremelypresumptuous and impertinent, and I desire, that I may never hear hisname repeated, and that you will get the better of those foolish sorrowsand whims, and look like other people, and not appear with that dismalcountenance, as if you were ready to cry. For, though you say nothing,you cannot conceal your grief from my penetration. I can see you areready to cry at this moment, though I am reproving you for it; aye, evennow, in spite of my commands.'

  Emily, having turned away to hide her tears, quitted the room to indulgethem, and the day was passed in an intensity of anguish, such
as shehad, perhaps, never known before. When she withdrew to her chamber forthe night, she remained in the chair where she had placed herself, onentering the room, absorbed in her grief, till long after every memberof the family, except herself, was retired to rest. She could not divestherself of a belief, that she had parted with Valancourt to meet nomore; 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 theprohibitions she had received, seemed to justify it, she yielded also toan impression, which she mistook for a pre-sentiment, that she was goingfrom Valancourt for ever. How dreadful to her imagination, too, was thedistance that would separate them--the Alps, those tremendous barriers!would rise, and whole countries extend between the regions where eachmust exist! To live in adjoining provinces, to live even in the samecountry, though without seeing him, was comparative happiness to theconviction of this dreadful length of distance.

  Her mind was, at length, so much agitated by the consideration of herstate, and the belief, that she had seen Valancourt for the last time,that she suddenly became very faint, and, looking round the chamber forsomething, that might revive her, she observed the casements, and hadjust strength to throw one open, near which she seated herself. The airrecalled her spirits, and the still moon-light, that fell upon theelms of a long avenue, fronting the window, somewhat soothed them,and determined her to try whether exercise and the open air would notrelieve the intense pain that bound her temples. In the chateau all wasstill; and, passing down the great stair-case into the hall, from whencea passage led immediately to the garden, she softly and unheard, as shethought, unlocked the door, and entered the avenue. Emily passed on withsteps now hurried, and now faltering, as, deceived by the shadowsamong the trees, she fancied she saw some person move in the distantperspective, and feared, that it was a spy of Madame Montoni. Herdesire, however, to re-visit the pavilion, where she had passed so manyhappy hours with Valancourt, and had admired with him the extensiveprospect over Languedoc and her native Gascony, overcame herapprehension of being observed, and she moved on towards the terrace,which, running along the upper garden, commanded the whole of thelower one, and communicated with it by a flight of marble steps, thatterminated the avenue.

  Having reached these steps, she paused a moment to look round, for herdistance from the chateau now increased the fear, which the stillnessand obscurity of the hour had awakened. But, perceiving nothing thatcould justify it, she ascended to the terrace, where the moon-lightshewed the long broad walk, with the pavilion at its extremity, whilethe rays silvered the foliage of the high trees and shrubs, thatbordered it on the right, and the tufted summits of those, that roseto a level with the balustrade on the left, from the garden below. Herdistance from the chateau again alarming her, she paused to listen; thenight was so calm, that no sound could have escaped her, but she heardonly the plaintive sweetness of the nightingale, with the light shiverof the leaves, and she pursued her way towards the pavilion, havingreached which, its obscurity did not prevent the emotion, that a fullerview of its well-known scene would have excited. The lattices werethrown back, and shewed beyond their embowered arch the moon-lightlandscape, shadowy and soft; its groves, and plains extending graduallyand indistinctly to the eye, its distant mountains catching a strongergleam, and the nearer river reflecting the moon, and trembling to herrays.

  Emily, as she approached the lattice, was sensible of the features ofthis scene only as they served to bring Valancourt more immediately toher fancy. 'Ah!' said she, with a heavy sigh, as she threw herselfinto a chair by the window, 'how often have we sat together in thisspot--often have looked upon that landscape! Never, never more shall weview it together--never--never more, perhaps, shall we look upon eachother!'

  Her tears were suddenly stopped by terror--a voice spoke near her inthe pavilion; she shrieked--it spoke again, and she distinguished thewell-known tones of Valancourt. It was indeed Valancourt who supportedher in his arms! For some moments their emotion would not suffer eitherto speak. 'Emily,' said Valancourt at length, as he pressed her hand inhis. 'Emily!' and he was again silent, but the accent, in which he hadpronounced her name, expressed all his tenderness and sorrow.

  'O my Emily!' he resumed, after a long pause, 'I do then see you onceagain, and hear again the sound of that voice! I have haunted thisplace--these gardens, for many--many nights, with a faint, very fainthope of seeing you. This was the only chance that remained to me, andthank heaven! it has at length succeeded--I am not condemned to absolutedespair!'

  Emily said something, she scarcely knew what, expressive of herunalterable affection, and endeavoured to calm the agitation ofhis mind; but Valancourt could for some time only utter incoherentexpressions of his emotions; and, when he was somewhat more composed, hesaid, 'I came hither, soon after sun-set, and have been watching in thegardens, and in this pavilion ever since; for, though I had now given upall hope of seeing you, I could not resolve to tear myself from a placeso near to you, and should probably have lingered about the chateau tillmorning dawned. O how heavily the moments have passed, yet with whatvarious emotion have they been marked, as I sometimes thought I heardfootsteps, and fancied you were approaching, and then again--perceivedonly a dead and dreary silence! But, when you opened the door of thepavilion, 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 ofyour voice, my doubts vanished, but not my fears, till you spoke ofme; then, losing the apprehension of alarming you in the excess of myemotion, I could no longer be silent. O Emily! these are moments, inwhich joy and grief struggle so powerfully for pre-eminence, that theheart can scarcely support the contest!'

  Emily's heart acknowledged the truth of this assertion, but the joyshe felt on thus meeting Valancourt, at the very moment when she waslamenting, that they must probably meet no more, soon melted into grief,as reflection stole over her thoughts, and imagination prompted visionsof the future. She struggled to recover the calm dignity of mind, whichwas necessary to support her through this last interview, and whichValancourt found it utterly impossible to attain, for the transports ofhis joy changed abruptly into those of suffering, and he expressed inthe most impassioned language his horror of this separation, and hisdespair of their ever meeting again. Emily wept silently as she listenedto him, and then, trying to command her own distress, and to sooth his,she suggested every circumstance that could lead to hope. But the energyof his fears led him instantly to detect the friendly fallacies, whichshe endeavoured to impose on herself and him, and also to conjure upillusions too powerful for his reason.

  'You are going from me,' said he, 'to a distant country, O howdistant!--to new society, new friends, new admirers, with people too,who will try to make you forget me, and to promote new connections! Howcan I know this, and not know, that you will never return for me--nevercan be mine.' His voice was stifled by sighs.

  'You believe, then,' said Emily, 'that the pangs I suffer proceed from atrivial and temporary interest; you believe--'

  'Suffer!' interrupted Valancourt, 'suffer for me! O Emily--howsweet--how bitter are those words; what comfort, what anguish do theygive! I ought not to doubt the steadiness of your affection, yet suchis the inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to suspicion,however unreasonable; always requiring new assurances from the objectof its interest, and thus it is, that I always feel revived, as by anew conviction, when your words tell me I am dear to you; and, wantingthese, I relapse into doubt, and too often into despondency.' Thenseeming to recollect himself, he exclaimed, 'But what a wretch am I,thus to torture you, and in these moments, too! I, who ought to supportand comfort you!'

  This reflection overcame Valancourt with tenderness, but, relapsing intodespondency, he again felt only for himself, and lamented again thiscruel separation, in a voice and words so impassioned, that Emilycould no longer struggle to repr
ess her own grief, or to sooth his.Valancourt, between these emotions of love and pity, lost the power, andalmost the wish, of repressing his agitation; and, in the intervals ofconvulsive sobs, he, at one moment, kissed away her tears, then toldher cruelly, that possibly she might never again weep for him, and thentried to speak more calmly, but only exclaimed, 'O Emily--my heart willbreak!--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 adream. I shall look, and cannot see you; shall try to recollect yourfeatures--and the impression will be fled from my imagination;--to hearthe tones of your voice, and even memory will be silent!--I cannot,cannot leave you! why should we confide the happiness of our whole livesto the will of people, who have no right to interrupt, and, except ingiving you to me, have no power to promote it? O Emily! venture to trustyour own heart, venture to be mine for ever!' His voice trembled, andhe was silent; Emily continued to weep, and was silent also, whenValancourt proceeded to propose an immediate marriage, and that at anearly hour on the following morning, she should quit Madame Montoni'shouse, and be conducted by him to the church of the Augustines, where afriar should await to unite them.

  The silence, with which she listened to a proposal, dictated by love anddespair, and enforced at a moment, when it seemed scarcely possiblefor her to oppose it;--when her heart was softened by the sorrows ofa separation, that might be eternal, and her reason obscured by theillusions of love and terror, encouraged him to hope, that it would notbe rejected. 'Speak, my Emily!' said Valancourt eagerly, 'let me hearyour voice, let me hear you confirm my fate.' she spoke not; her cheekwas cold, and her senses seemed to fail her, but she did not faint. ToValancourt's terrified imagination she appeared to be dying; he calledupon her name, rose to go to the chateau 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. Theconflict she had suffered, between love and the duty she at present owedto her father's sister; her repugnance to a clandestine marriage,her fear of emerging on the world with embarrassments, such asmight ultimately involve the object of her affection in misery andrepentance;--all this various interest was too powerful for a mind,already enervated by sorrow, and her reason had suffered a transientsuspension. But duty, and good sense, however hard the conflict, atlength, triumphed over affection and mournful presentiment; above all,she dreaded to involve Valancourt in obscurity and vain regret, whichshe saw, or thought she saw, must be the too certain consequence of amarriage in their present circumstances; and she acted, perhaps, withsomewhat more than female fortitude, when she resolved to endure apresent, 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 toldValancourt all her reasons for rejecting his proposals. Those, whichinfluenced her concerning his future welfare, he instantly refuted, orrather 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 immediatemarriage, now induced him to renounce it. The triumph was almost toomuch for his heart; for Emily's sake, he endeavoured to stifle hisgrief, but the swelling anguish would not be restrained. 'O Emily!' saidhe, '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 insilence, till Emily, recollecting the danger of being discovered, andthe impropriety of prolonging an interview, which might subject her tocensure, summoned all her fortitude to utter a last farewell.

  'Stay!' said Valancourt, 'I conjure you stay, for I have much to tellyou. The agitation of my mind has hitherto suffered me to speak onlyon the subject that occupied it;--I have forborne to mention a doubt ofmuch importance, partly, lest it should appear as if I told it withan ungenerous view of alarming you into a compliance with my lateproposal.'

  Emily, much agitated, did not leave Valancourt, but she led him from thepavilion, and, as they walked upon the terrace, he proceeded as follows:

  'This Montoni: I have heard some strange hints concerning him. Are youcertain he is of Madame Quesnel's family, and that his fortune is whatit 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 meansof judging of the latter, and I entreat you will tell me all you haveheard.'

  'That I certainly will, but it is very imperfect, and unsatisfactoryinformation. I gathered it by accident from an Italian, who was speakingto 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 likelyto make Madame Cheron happy. He proceeded to speak of him in generalterms of dislike, and then gave some particular hints, concerning hischaracter, that excited my curiosity, and I ventured to ask him a fewquestions. He was reserved in his replies, but, after hesitating forsome time, he owned, that he had understood abroad, that Montoni was aman of desperate fortune and character. He said something of a castleof Montoni's, situated among the Apennines, and of some strangecircumstances, that might be mentioned, as to his former mode of life.I pressed him to inform me further, but I believe the strong interest Ifelt was visible in my manner, and alarmed him; for no entreaties couldprevail with him to give any explanation of the circumstances he hadalluded to, or to mention any thing further concerning Montoni. Iobserved to him, that, if Montoni was possessed of a castle in theApennines, it appeared from such a circumstance, that he was of somefamily, and also seemed to contradict the report, that he was a man ofentirely broken fortunes. He shook his head, and looked as if he couldhave 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 thesubject repeatedly, but the Italian wrapped himself up in reserve,said--that what he had mentioned he had caught only from a floatingreport, and that reports frequently arose from personal malice, and werevery little to be depended upon. I forbore to press the subject farther,since it was obvious that he was alarmed for the consequence of whathe had already said, and I was compelled to remain in uncertainty on apoint where suspense is almost intolerable. Think, Emily, what I mustsuffer to see you depart for a foreign country, committed to the powerof a man of such doubtful character as is this Montoni! But I will notalarm you unnecessarily;--it is possible, as the Italian said, at first,that this is not the Montoni he alluded to. Yet, Emily, consider wellbefore you resolve to commit yourself to him. O! I must not trustmyself to speak--or I shall renounce all the motives, which so latelyinfluenced me to resign the hope of your becoming mine immediately.'

  Valancourt walked upon the terrace with hurried steps, while Emilyremained leaning on the balustrade in deep thought. The information shehad just received excited, perhaps, more alarm than it could justify,and raised once more the conflict of contrasted interests. She had neverliked Montoni. The fire and keenness of his eye, its proud exultation,its bold fierceness, its sullen watchfulness, as occasion, and evenslight occasion, had called forth the latent soul, she had oftenobserved with emotion; while from the usual expression of hiscountenance she had always shrunk. From such observations she was themore inclined to believe, that it was this Montoni, of whom the Italianhad uttered his suspicious hints. The thought of being solely in hispower, in a foreign land, was terrifying to her, but it was notby terror alone that she was urged to an immediate marriage withValancourt. The tenderest love had already pleaded his cause, but hadbeen unable to overcome her opinion, as to her duty, her disinterestedconsiderations for Valancourt, and the delicacy, which made her revoltfrom a clandestine union. It was not to be expected, that a vague terrorwould be more powerful, than the united influence of love and grief. Butit recalled all their energy, and rendered a second conquest necessary.

  With Valancourt, whose imagination was now aw
ake to the suggestion ofevery passion; whose apprehensions for Emily had acquired strength bythe mere mention of them, and became every instant more powerful, ashis mind brooded over them--with Valancourt no second conquest wasattainable. He thought he saw in the clearest light, and love assistedthe fear, that this journey to Italy would involve Emily in misery; hedetermined, therefore, to persevere in opposing it, and in conjuring herto bestow upon him the title of her lawful protector.

  'Emily!' said he, with solemn earnestness, 'this is no time forscrupulous distinctions, for weighing the dubious and comparativelytrifling circumstances, that may affect our future comfort. I now see,much more clearly than before, the train of serious dangers you aregoing to encounter with a man of Montoni's character. Those darkhints of the Italian spoke much, but not more than the idea I have ofMontoni's disposition, as exhibited even in his countenance. I think Isee at this moment all that could have been hinted, written there. He isthe Italian, whom I fear, and I conjure you for your own sake, as wellas for mine, to prevent the evils I shudder to foresee. O Emily! let mytenderness, my arms withhold you from them--give me the right to defendyou!'

  Emily only sighed, while Valancourt proceeded to remonstrate and toentreat with all the energy that love and apprehension could inspire.But, as his imagination magnified to her the possible evils she wasgoing to meet, the mists of her own fancy began to dissipate, andallowed her to distinguish the exaggerated images, which imposed on hisreason. She considered, that there was no proof of Montoni being theperson, whom the stranger had meant; that, even if he was so, theItalian had noticed his character and broken fortunes merely fromreport; and that, though the countenance of Montoni seemed to giveprobability to a part of the rumour, it was not by such circumstancesthat an implicit belief of it could be justified. These considerationswould probably not have arisen so distinctly to her mind, at thistime, had not the terrors of Valancourt presented to her such obviousexaggerations of her danger, as incited her to distrust the fallacies ofpassion. But, while she endeavoured in the gentlest manner to convincehim of his error, she plunged him into a new one. His voice andcountenance changed to an expression of dark despair. 'Emily!' saidhe, 'this, this moment is the bitterest that is yet come to me. Youdo not--cannot love me!--It would be impossible for you to reason thuscoolly, thus deliberately, if you did. I, _I_ am torn with anguish atthe prospect of our separation, and of the evils that may await you inconsequence of it; I would encounter any hazards to prevent it--to saveyou. No! Emily, no!--you cannot love me.'

  'We have now little time to waste in exclamation, or assertion,' saidEmily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion: 'if you are yet to learn howdear you are, and ever must be, to my heart, no assurances of mine cangive you conviction.'

  The last words faltered on her lips, and her tears flowed fast. Thesewords 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, aftersome moments, again roused herself from the indulgence of sorrow, andsaid, 'I must leave you; it is late, and my absence from the chateau maybe discovered. Think of me--love me--when I am far away; the belief ofthis 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 leaveyou thus!'

  'Then do not leave me!' said Valancourt, with quickness. 'Why should wepart, or part for longer than till to-morrow?'

  'I am, indeed I am, unequal to these moments,' replied Emily, 'you tearmy 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; wemust submit to circumstances.'

  'We must indeed! I have already told you all my heart--my spirits aregone. You allowed the force of my objections, till your tendernesscalled 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 havefelt only for myself!--I! who ought to have shewn the fortitude of aman, who ought to have supported you, I! have increased your sufferingsby the conduct of a child! Forgive me, Emily! think of the distractionof my mind now that I am about to part with all that is dear to me--andforgive me! When you are gone, I shall recollect with bitter remorsewhat I have made you suffer, and shall wish in vain that I could seeyou, if only for a moment, that I might sooth your grief.'

  Tears again interrupted his voice, and Emily wept with him. 'I will shewmyself more worthy of your love,' said Valancourt, at length; 'I willnot prolong these moments. My Emily--my own Emily! never forget me! Godknows when we shall meet again! I resign you to his care.--O God!--OGod!--protect and bless her!'

  He pressed her hand to his heart. Emily sunk almost lifeless on hisbosom, and neither wept, nor spoke. Valancourt, now commanding his owndistress, tried to comfort and re-assure her, but she appeared totallyunaffected 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 chateau, weeping and speaking toher; but she answered only in sighs, till, having reached the gate, thatterminated the avenue, she seemed to have recovered her consciousness,and, looking round, perceived how near they were to the chateau. 'Wemust part here,' said she, stopping, 'Why prolong these moments? Teachme the fortitude I have forgot.'

  Valancourt struggled to assume a composed air. 'Farewell, my love!' saidhe, in a voice of solemn tenderness--'trust me we shall meet again--meetfor each other--meet to part no more!' His voice faltered, but,recovering it, he proceeded in a firmer tone. 'You know not what I shallsuffer, till I hear from you; I shall omit no opportunity of conveyingto you my letters, yet I tremble to think how few may occur. And trustme, love, for your dear sake, I will try to bear this absence withfortitude. O how little I have shewn to-night!'

  'Farewell!' said Emily faintly. 'When you are gone, I shall think ofmany things I would have said to you.' 'And I of many--many!' saidValancourt; 'I never left you yet, that I did not immediately remembersome question, or some entreaty, or some circumstance, concerning mylove, that I earnestly wished to mention, and feel wretched because Icould not. O Emily! this countenance, on which I now gaze--will, in amoment, be gone from my eyes, and not all the efforts of fancy will beable to recall it with exactness. O! what an infinite difference betweenthis 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 frommy only home!'

  Valancourt again pressed her to his heart, and held her there insilence, weeping. Tears once again calmed her oppressed mind. They againbade each other farewell, lingered a moment, and then parted. Valancourtseemed to force himself from the spot; he passed hastily up the avenue,and Emily, as she moved slowly towards the chateau, heard his distantsteps. She listened to the sounds, as they sunk fainter and fainter,till the melancholy stillness of night alone remained; and thenhurried to her chamber, to seek repose, which, alas! was fled from herwretchedness.

  VOLUME 2