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 was 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 shewn 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 any body 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
kind-hearted lady and gentleman in the whole province, nor any that love
one another half so well, if the truth was spoken!'