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 ofValancourt; but Theresa, having, at length, found a person, whom shecould entrust on her errand to the steward, informed her, that themessenger would return on the following day; and Emily promised to be atthe cottage, Theresa being too lame to attend her.
In the evening, therefore, Emily set out alone for the cottage, with amelancholy foreboding, concerning Valancourt, while, perhaps, the gloomof the hour might contribute to depress her spirits. It was a greyautumnal evening towards the close of the season; heavy mists partiallyobscured the mountains, and a chilling breeze, that sighed among thebeech 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 toannounce the death of Valancourt. Of this she had, indeed, more thanonce so strong a presentiment, that she was on the point of returninghome, feeling herself unequal to an encounter with the certainty sheanticipated, but, contending with her emotions, she so far commandedthem, 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 thewind, now disappearing among tempestuous clouds, and then emerging,for a moment, in circles upon the calmer air, the afflictions andvicissitudes of her late life seemed pourtrayed in these fleetingimages;--thus had she been tossed upon the stormy sea of misfortune forthe last year, with but short intervals of peace, if peace that could becalled, which was only the delay of evils. And now, when she had escapedfrom so many dangers, was become independent of the will of those, whohad oppressed her, and found herself mistress of a large fortune, now,when she might reasonably have expected happiness, she perceived thatshe was as distant from it as ever. She would have accused herselfof weakness and ingratitude in thus suffering a sense of the variousblessings she possessed to be overcome by that of a single misfortune,had this misfortune affected herself alone; but, when she had wept forValancourt even as living, tears of compassion had mingled with thoseof regret, and while she lamented a human being degraded to vice, andconsequently to misery, reason and humanity claimed these tears, andfortitude had not yet taught her to separate them from those of love; inthe present moments, however, it was not the certainty of his guilt, butthe 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 certaintyconcerning it approached; and, when she came within view of Theresa'scottage, she was so much disordered, and her resolution failed her soentirely, that, unable to proceed, she rested on a bank, beside herpath; where, as she sat, the wind that groaned sullenly among the loftybranches above, seemed to her melancholy imagination to bear the soundsof distant lamentation, and, in the pauses of the gust, she stillfancied she heard the feeble and far-off notes of distress. Attentionconvinced her, that this was no more than fancy; but the increasinggloom, which seemed the sudden close of day, soon warned her to depart,and, with faltering steps, she again moved toward the cottage. Throughthe casement appeared the cheerful blaze of a wood fire, and Theresa,who had observed Emily approaching, was already at the door to receiveher.
'It is a cold evening, madam,' said she, 'storms are coming on, and Ithought you would like a fire. Do take this chair by the hearth.'
Emily, thanking her for this consideration, sat down, and then, lookingin her face, on which the wood fire threw a gleam, she was struck withits expression, and, unable to speak, sunk back in her chair with acountenance so full of woe, that Theresa instantly comprehended theoccasion of it, but she remained silent. 'Ah!' said Emily, at length,'it is unnecessary for me to ask the result of your enquiry, yoursilence, and that look, sufficiently explain it;--he is dead!'
'Alas! my dear young lady,' replied Theresa, while tears filled hereyes, 'this world is made up of trouble! the rich have their shareas well as the poor! But we must all endeavour to bear what Heavenpleases.'
'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 theEpourville family, have heard of him since he left Languedoc, andthe Count is in great affliction about him, for he says he was alwayspunctual 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 hasbefallen him. Alas! that ever I should live to cry for his death! I amold, and might have died without being missed, but he'--Emily was faint,and asked for some water, and Theresa, alarmed by the voice, in whichshe spoke, hastened to her assistance, and, while she held the water toEmily's lips, continued, 'My dear young mistress, do not take it so toheart; the Chevalier may be alive and well, for all this; let us hopethe 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 hearwhat you have to say. Tell me, I entreat, the particulars of what youknow.'
'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,' saidEmily, 'tell me all, I conjure you!'
'Well, madam, I will then; but the steward did not say much, for Richardsays he seemed shy of talking about Mons. Valancourt, and what hegathered was from Gabriel, one of the servants, who said he had heard itfrom my lord's gentleman.'
'What did he hear?' said Emily.
'Why, madam, Richard has but a bad memory, and could not remember halfof it, and, if I had not asked him a great many questions, I should haveheard little indeed. But he says that Gabriel said, that he and all theother servants were in great trouble about M. Valancourt, for that hewas such a kind young gentleman, they all loved him, as well as if hehad 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 beenin fault, M. Valancourt was the first to persuade my lord to forgivethem. And then, if any poor family was in distress, M. Valancourt wasthe 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, hewas so gentle to every body, and, for all he had such a noble look withhim, he never would command, and call about him, as some of your qualitypeople 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 obeyhim at a word, sooner than if some folks had told us what to do at fulllength; 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. Gabrielsays he had it from my Lord's valet, that M. Valancourt had COMPORTEDhimself wildly at Paris, and had spent a great deal of money, morea 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 oldGregoire, the butler, heard of this, he actually bought a walking-stickto take with him to Paris, to visit his young master; but the next thingwe hear is, that M. Valancourt is coming home. O, it was a joyful daywhen he came; but he was sadly altered, and my Lord looked very coolupon him, and he was very sad, indeed. And, soon after, he went awayagain into Languedoc, and, since that time, we have never seen him.'
Theresa paused, and Emily, si
ghing deeply, remained with her eyes fixedupon the floor, without speaking. After a long pause, she enquired whatfurther Theresa had heard. 'Yet why should I ask?' she added; 'whatyou have already told is too much. O Valancourt! thou art gone--forevergone! and I--I have murdered thee!' These words, and the countenance ofdespair which accompanied them, alarmed Theresa, who began to fear, thatthe shock of the intelligence Emily had just received, had affected hersenses. 'My dear young lady, be composed,' said she, 'and do not saysuch frightful words. You murder M. Valancourt,--dear heart!' Emilyreplied only by a heavy sigh.
'Dear lady, it breaks my heart to see you look so,' said Theresa, 'donot 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 notappear to hear any thing that was said to her. 'Besides, mademoiselle,'continued Theresa, 'M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet, for whatwe know.'
At the mention of his name, Emily raised her eyes, and fixed them, in awild gaze, upon Theresa, as if she was endeavouring to understand whathad been said. 'Aye, my dear lady,' said Theresa, mistaking the meaningof 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 heightenher distress. She rose hastily from her chair, paced the little room,with quick steps, and, often sighing deeply, clasped her hands, andshuddered.
Meanwhile, Theresa, with simple, but honest affection, endeavoured tocomfort her; put more wood on the fire, stirred it up into a brighterblaze, swept the hearth, set the chair, which Emily had left, in awarmer 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 nearerthe fire, and take a glass of this wine; it will comfort you, as it hasdone 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 sentme, 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, andwhat kind words he said to me when he gave them. Theresa, says he, youare not young now, and should have a glass of good wine, now and then. Iwill send you a few flasks, and, when you taste them, you will sometimesremember me your friend. Yes--those were his very words--me yourfriend!' Emily still paced the room, without seeming to hear whatTheresa said, who continued speaking. 'And I have remembered him, oftenenough, 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 blessedmaster, if ever saint was!'
Theresa's voice faltered; she wept, and set down the flask, unable topour out the wine. Her grief seemed to recall Emily from her own, whowent towards her, but then stopped, and, having gazed on her, for amoment, turned suddenly away, as if overwhelmed by the reflection, thatit 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 affectedEmily's spirits; she paused a moment in attention; the tender tones,as they swelled along the wind, till they were lost again in the rudergust, came with a plaintiveness, that touched her heart, and she meltedinto tears.
'Aye,' said Theresa, drying her eyes, 'there is Richard, our neighbour'sson, playing on the oboe; it is sad enough, to hear such sweet musicnow.' Emily continued to weep, without replying. 'He often plays of anevening,' added Theresa, 'and, sometimes, the young folks dance to thesound of his oboe. But, dear young lady! do not cry so; and pray takea glass of this wine,' continued she, pouring some into a glass, andhanding it to Emily, who reluctantly took it.
'Taste it for M. Valancourt's sake,' said Theresa, as Emily lifted theglass to her lips, 'for he gave it me, you know, madam.' Emily's handtrembled, and she spilt the wine as she withdrew it from her lips. 'Forwhose 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 thelast 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 herhand, entreated she might be left alone, and wept the more.
A knock at the cottage door prevented Theresa from immediately obeyingher 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 wasonly Philippe, and endeavoured to restrain her tears, while Theresaopened 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 immediatelya bright gleam, that flashed from the fire, discovered--Valancourt!
Emily, on perceiving him, started from her chair, trembled, and, sinkinginto it again, became insensible to all around her.
A scream from Theresa now told, that she knew Valancourt, whom herimperfect sight, and the duskiness of the place had prevented her fromimmediately recollecting; but his attention was immediately called fromher to the person, whom he saw, falling from a chair near the fire;and, hastening to her assistance,--he perceived, that he was supportingEmily! The various emotions, that seized him upon thus unexpectedlymeeting with her, from whom he had believed he had parted for ever,and on beholding her pale and lifeless in his arms--may, perhaps, beimagined, though they could neither be then expressed, or now described,any more than Emily's sensations, when, at length, she unclosed hereyes, and, looking up, again saw Valancourt. The intense anxiety, withwhich he regarded her, was instantly changed to an expression of mingledjoy and tenderness, as his eye met hers, and he perceived, that she wasreviving. But he could only exclaim, 'Emily!' as he silently watched herrecovery, while she averted her eye, and feebly attempted to withdrawher hand; but, in these the first moments, which succeeded to the pangshis supposed death had occasioned her, she forgot every fault, which hadformerly claimed indignation, and beholding Valancourt such as he hadappeared, when he won her early affection, she experienced emotions ofonly tenderness and joy. This, alas! was but the sunshine of a few shortmoments; recollections rose, like clouds, upon her mind, and, darkeningthe illusive image, that possessed it, she again beheld Valancourt,degraded--Valancourt unworthy of the esteem and tenderness she had oncebestowed upon him; her spirits faltered, and, withdrawing her hand, sheturned from him to conceal her grief, while he, yet more embarrassed andagitated, remained silent.
A sense of what she owed to herself restrained her tears, and taughther soon to overcome, in some degree, the emotions of mingled joy andsorrow, that contended at her heart, as she rose, and, having thankedhim for the assistance he had given her, bade Theresa good evening. Asshe was leaving the cottage, Valancourt, who seemed suddenly awakenedas from a dream, entreated, in a voice, that pleaded powerfully forcompassion, a few moments attention. Emily's heart, perhaps, pleaded aspowerfully, but she had resolution enough to resist both, together withthe clamorous entreaties of Theresa, that she would not venture homealone in the dark, and had already opened the cottage door, when thepelting storm compelled her to obey their requests.
Silent and embarrassed, she returned to the fire, while Valancourt, withincreasing agitation, paced the room, as if he wished, yet feared, tospeak, and Theresa expressed without restraint her joy and wonder uponseeing him.
'Dear heart! sir,' said she, 'I never was so surprised and overjoyed inmy life. We were in great tribulation before you came, for we thoughtyou was dead, and were talking, and lamenting about you, just when youknocked at the door. My young mistress there was crying, fit to breakher heart--'
Emily looked with much displeasure at Theresa, but, before she couldspeak, Valancourt, unable to repress the emotion, which Theresa'simprudent discovery occasioned, exclaimed, 'O my Emily! am I thenstill dear to you! Did you, indeed, honour me with a thought--a tear? Oheavens! you weep--you weep now!'
'Theresa, sir,' said Emily, with a reserved air, and trying to conquerher tears, 'has
reason to remember you with gratitude, and she wasconcerned, because she had not lately heard of you. Allow me to thankyou for the kindness you have shewn her, and to say, that, since I amnow upon the spot, she must not be further indebted to you.''
'Emily,' said Valancourt, no longer master of his emotions, 'is it thusyou meet him, whom once you meant to honour with your hand--thus youmeet 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 everypretension to your esteem, your love. Yes! let me not forget, that Ionce possessed your affections, though to know that I have lost them,is my severest affliction. Affliction--do I call it!--that is a term ofmildness.'
'Dear heart!' said Theresa, preventing Emily from replying, 'talk ofonce having her affections! Why, my dear young lady loves you now,better than she does any body in the whole world, though she pretends todeny it.'
'This is insupportable!' said Emily; 'Theresa, you know not what yousay. Sir, if you respect my tranquillity, you will spare me from thecontinuance 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 fewmoments attention--yet I know not for what purpose. You have ceased toesteem 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 indeedvery wretched!' added Valancourt, in a voice, that softened fromsolemnity into grief.
'What! is my dear young master going out in all this rain!' saidTheresa. 'No, he shall not stir a step. Dear! dear! to see howgentlefolks can afford to throw away their happiness! Now, if you werepoor people, there would be none of this. To talk of unworthiness,and not caring about one another, when I know there are not such akind-hearted lady and gentleman in the whole province, nor any that loveone 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, summoningall 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 behappy, Emily, however wretched I remain, happy as my fondest wish wouldhave you!'
His voice faltered with the last words, and his countenance changed,while, with a look of ineffable tenderness and grief, he gazed upon herfor 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 turnhim out in! Why it will give him his death; and it was but now you wascrying, mademoiselle, because he was dead. Well! young ladies do changetheir mind in a minute, as one may say!'
Emily made no reply, for she heard not what was said, while, lost insorrow and thought, she remained in her chair by the fire, with her eyesfixed, and the image of Valancourt still before them.
'M. Valancourt is sadly altered! madam,' said Theresa; 'he looks so thinto what he used to do, and so melancholy, and then he wears his arm in asling.'
Emily raised her eyes at these words, for she had not observed this lastcircumstance, and she now did not doubt, that Valancourt had receivedthe shot of her gardener at Tholouse; with this conviction her pity forhim returning, she blamed herself for having occasioned him to leave thecottage, during the storm.
Soon after her servants arrived with the carriage, and Emily, havingcensured Theresa for her thoughtless conversation to Valancourt, andstrictly 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'scottage, on the way from Tholouse to the chateau of the Count deDuvarney, where he had not been since he bade adieu to Emily atChateau-le-Blanc, in the neighbourhood of which he had lingered for aconsiderable 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 longendure the thought of involving her in his misfortunes, at length, sofar triumphed over passion, that he relinquished this desperate design,and quitted Chateau-le-Blanc. But still his fancy wandered among thescenes, which had witnessed his early love, and, on his way toGascony, he stopped at Tholouse, where he remained when Emily arrived,concealing, yet indulging his melancholy in the gardens, where he hadformerly passed with her so many happy hours; often recurring, with vainregret, to the evening before her departure for Italy, when she had sounexpectedly met him on the terrace, and endeavouring to recall to hismemory every word and look, which had then charmed him, the argumentshe had employed to dissuade her from the journey, and the tendernessof their last farewel. In such melancholy recollections he had beenindulging, when Emily unexpectedly arrived to him on this very terrace,the evening after her arrival at Tholouse. His emotions, on thusseeing her, can scarcely be imagined; but he so far overcame the firstpromptings of love, that he forbore to discover himself, and abruptlyquitted the gardens. Still, however, the vision he had seen haunted hismind; he became more wretched than before, and the only solace of hissorrow was to return in the silence of the night; to follow the pathswhich he believed her steps had pressed, during the day; and, to watchround the habitation where she reposed. It was in one of these mournfulwanderings, that he had received by the fire of the gardener, whomistook him for a robber, a wound in his arm, which had detained himat Tholouse till very lately, under the hands of a surgeon. There,regardless of himself and careless of his friends, whose late unkindnesshad urged him to believe, that they were indifferent as to his fate,he remained, without informing them of his situation; and now, beingsufficiently recovered to bear travelling, he had taken La Vallee inhis way to Estuviere, the Count's residence, partly for the purpose ofhearing of Emily, and of being again near her, and partly for that ofenquiring into the situation of poor old Theresa, who, he had reason tosuppose, had been deprived of her stipend, small as it was, and whichenquiry had brought him to her cottage, when Emily happened to be there.
This unexpected interview, which had at once shewn him the tenderness ofher love and the strength of her resolution, renewed all the acutenessof the despair, that had attended their former separation, and whichno effort of reason could teach him, in these moments, to subdue. Herimage, her look, the tones of her voice, all dwelt on his fancy, aspowerfully as they had late appeared to his senses, and banished fromhis heart every emotion, except those of love and despair.
Before the evening concluded, he returned to Theresa's cottage, thathe might hear her talk of Emily, and be in the place, where she had solately been. The joy, felt and expressed by that faithful servant, wasquickly changed to sorrow, when she observed, at one moment, his wildand phrensied look, and, at another, the dark melancholy, that overhunghim.
After he had listened, and for a considerable time, to all she had torelate, concerning Emily, he gave Theresa nearly all the money hehad about him, though she repeatedly refused it, declaring, that hermistress had amply supplied her wants; and then, drawing a ring of valuefrom his finger, he delivered it her with a solemn charge to presentit to Emily, of whom he entreated, as a last favour, that she wouldpreserve 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 noanswer, and saw him no more.