A scream from Theresa now told, that she knew Valancourt, whom her imperfect sight, and the duskiness of the place had prevented her from immediately recollecting; but his attention was immediately called from her to the person, whom he saw, falling from a chair near the fire; and, hastening to her assistance—he perceived, that he was supporting Emily! The various emotions, that seized him upon thus unexpectedly meeting with her, from whom he had believed he had parted forever, and on beholding her pale and lifeless in his arms—may, perhaps, be imagined, though they could neither be then expressed, nor now described, any more than Emily’s sensations, when, at length, she unclosed her eyes, and, looking up, again saw Valancourt. The intense anxiety, with which he regarded her, was instantly changed to an expression of mingled joy and tenderness, as his eye met hers, and he perceived, that she was reviving. But he could only exclaim, “Emily!” as he silently watched her recovery, while she averted her eye, and feebly attempted to withdraw her hand; but, in these the first moments, which succeeded to the pangs his supposed death had occasioned her, she forgot every fault, which had formerly claimed indignation, and beholding Valancourt such as he had appeared, when he won her early affection, she experienced emotions of only tenderness and joy. This, alas! was but the sunshine of a few short moments; recollections rose, like clouds, upon her mind, and, darkening the illusive image, that possessed it, she again beheld Valancourt, degraded—Valancourt unworthy of the esteem and tenderness she had once bestowed upon him; her spirits faltered, and, withdrawing her hand, she turned from him to conceal her grief, while he, yet more embarrassed and agitated, remained silent.
A sense of what she owed to herself restrained her tears, and taught her soon to overcome, in some degree, the emotions of mingled joy and sorrow, that contended at her heart, as she rose, and, having thanked him for the assistance he had given her, bade Theresa good evening. As she was leaving the cottage, Valancourt, who seemed suddenly awakened as from a dream, entreated, in a voice, that pleaded powerfully for compassion, a few moments attention. Emily’s heart, perhaps, pleaded as powerfully, but she had resolution enough to resist both, together with the clamorous entreaties of Theresa, that she would not venture home alone in the dark, and had already opened the cottage door, when the pelting storm compelled her to obey their requests.
Silent and embarrassed, she returned to the fire, while Valancourt, with increasing agitation, paced the room, as if he wished, yet feared, to speak, and Theresa expressed without restraint her joy and wonder upon seeing him.
“Dear heart! sir,” said she, “I never was so surprised and overjoyed in my life. We were in great tribulation before you came, for we thought you were dead, and were talking, and lamenting about you, just when you knocked at the door. My young mistress there was crying, fit to break her heart—”
Emily looked with much displeasure at Theresa, but, before she could speak, Valancourt, unable to repress the emotion, which Theresa’s imprudent discovery occasioned, exclaimed, “O my Emily! am I then still dear to you! Did you, indeed, honour me with a thought—a tear? O heavens! you weep—you weep now!”
“Theresa, sir,” said Emily, with a reserved air, and trying to conquer her tears, “has reason to remember you with gratitude, and she was concerned, because she had not lately heard of you. Allow me to thank you for the kindness you have shown her, and to say, that, since I am now upon the spot, she must not be further indebted to you.”
“Emily,” said Valancourt, no longer master of his emotions, “is it thus you meet him, whom once you meant to honour with your hand—thus you meet him, who has loved you—suffered for you?—Yet what do I say? Pardon me, pardon me, mademoiselle St. Aubert, I know not what I utter. I have no longer any claim upon your remembrance—I have forfeited every pretension to your esteem, your love. Yes! let me not forget, that I once possessed your affections, though to know that I have lost them, is my severest affliction. Affliction—do I call it!—that is a term of mildness.”
“Dear heart!” said Theresa, preventing Emily from replying, “talk of once having her affections! Why, my dear young lady loves you now, better than she does anybody in the whole world, though she pretends to deny it.”
“This is insupportable!” said Emily; “Theresa, you know not what you say. Sir, if you respect my tranquillity, you will spare me from the continuance of this distress.”
“I do respect your tranquillity too much, voluntarily to interrupt it,” replied Valancourt, in whose bosom pride now contended with tenderness; “and will not be a voluntary intruder. I would have entreated a few moments attention—yet I know not for what purpose. You have ceased to esteem me, and to recount to you my sufferings will degrade me more, without exciting even your pity. Yet I have been, O Emily! I am indeed very wretched!” added Valancourt, in a voice, that softened from solemnity into grief.
“What! is my dear young master going out in all this rain!” said Theresa. “No, he shall not stir a step. Dear! dear! to see how gentlefolks can afford to throw away their happiness! Now, if you were poor people, there would be none of this. To talk of unworthiness, and not caring about one another, when I know there are not such a kindhearted lady and gentleman in the whole province, nor any that love one another half so well, if the truth was spoken!”
Emily, in extreme vexation, now rose from her chair, “I must be gone,” said she, “the storm is over.”
“Stay, Emily, stay, mademoiselle St. Aubert!” said Valancourt, summoning all his resolution, “I will no longer distress you by my presence. Forgive me, that I did not
