Theresa paused, and Emily, sighing deeply, remained with her eyes fixed upon the floor, without speaking. After a long pause, she enquired what further Theresa had heard. “Yet why should I ask?” she added; “what you have already told is too much. O Valancourt! thou art gone—forever gone! and I—I have murdered thee!” These words, and the countenance of despair which accompanied them, alarmed Theresa, who began to fear, that the shock of the intelligence Emily had just received, had affected her senses. “My dear young lady, be composed,” said she, “and do not say such frightful words. You murder M. Valancourt—dear heart!” Emily replied only by a heavy sigh.
“Dear lady, it breaks my heart to see you look so,” said Theresa, “do not sit with your eyes upon the ground, and all so pale and melancholy; it frightens me to see you.” Emily was still silent, and did not appear to hear anything that was said to her. “Besides, mademoiselle,” continued Theresa, “M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet, for what we know.”
At the mention of his name, Emily raised her eyes, and fixed them, in a wild gaze, upon Theresa, as if she was endeavouring to understand what had been said. “Aye, my dear lady,” said Theresa, mistaking the meaning of this considerate air, “M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet.”
On the repetition of these words, Emily comprehended their import, but, instead of producing the effect intended, they seemed only to heighten her distress. She rose hastily from her chair, paced the little room, with quick steps, and, often sighing deeply, clasped her hands, and shuddered.
Meanwhile, Theresa, with simple, but honest affection, endeavoured to comfort her; put more wood on the fire, stirred it up into a brighter blaze, swept the hearth, set the chair, which Emily had left, in a warmer situation, and then drew forth from a cupboard a flask of wine. “It is a stormy night, madam,” said she, “and blows cold—do come nearer the fire, and take a glass of this wine; it will comfort you, as it has done me, often and often, for it is not such wine as one gets every day; it is rich Languedoc, and the last of six flasks that M. Valancourt sent me, the night before he left Gascony for Paris. They have served me, ever since, as cordials, and I never drink it, but I think of him, and what kind words he said to me when he gave them. ‘Theresa,’ says he, ‘you are not young now, and should have a glass of good wine, now and then. I will send you a few flasks, and, when you taste them, you will sometimes remember me your friend.’ Yes—those were his very words—me your friend!” Emily still paced the room, without seeming to hear what Theresa said, who continued speaking. “And I have remembered him, often enough, poor young gentleman!—for he gave me this roof for a shelter, and that, which has supported me. Ah! he is in heaven, with my blessed master, if ever saint was!”
Theresa’s voice faltered; she wept, and set down the flask, unable to pour out the wine. Her grief seemed to recall Emily from her own, who went towards her, but then stopped, and, having gazed on her, for a moment, turned suddenly away, as if overwhelmed by the reflection, that it was Valancourt, whom Theresa lamented.
While she yet paced the room, the still, soft note of an oboe, or flute, was heard mingling with the blast, the sweetness of which affected Emily’s spirits; she paused a moment in attention; the tender tones, as they swelled along the wind, till they were lost again in the ruder gust, came with a plaintiveness, that touched her heart, and she melted into tears.
“Aye,” said Theresa, drying her eyes, “there is Richard, our neighbour’s son, playing on the oboe; it is sad enough, to hear such sweet music now.” Emily continued to weep, without replying. “He often plays of an evening,” added Theresa, “and, sometimes, the young folks dance to the sound of his oboe. But, dear young lady! do not cry so; and pray take a glass of this wine,” continued she, pouring some into a glass, and handing it to Emily, who reluctantly took it.
“Taste it for M. Valancourt’s sake,” said Theresa, as Emily lifted the glass to her lips, “for he gave it me, you know, madam.” Emily’s hand trembled, and she spilt the wine as she withdrew it from her lips. “For whose sake!—who gave the wine?” said she in a faltering voice. “M. Valancourt, dear lady. I knew you would be pleased with it. It is the last flask I have left.”
Emily set the wine upon the table, and burst into tears, while Theresa, disappointed and alarmed, tried to comfort her; but she only waved her hand, entreated she might be left alone, and wept the more.
A knock at the cottage door prevented Theresa from immediately obeying her mistress, and she was going to open it, when Emily, checking her, requested she would not admit any person; but, afterwards, recollecting, that she had ordered her servant to attend her home, she said it was only Philippe, and endeavoured to restrain her tears, while Theresa opened the door.
A voice, that spoke without, drew Emily’s attention. She listened, turned her eyes to the door, when a person now appeared, and immediately a bright gleam, that flashed from the fire, discovered—Valancourt!
Emily, on perceiving him, started from her
