Valancourt waited impatiently for the conclusion of the sentence,
but the words died on her lips. Her eyes, however, reflected all the
emotions of her heart. Valancourt passed, in an instant, from the
impatience of despair, to that of joy and tenderness. 'O Emily!' he
exclaimed, 'my own Emily--teach me to sustain this moment! Let me seal
it as the most sacred of my life!'
He pressed her hand to his lips, it was cold and trembling; and, raising
her eyes, he saw the paleness of her countenance. Tears came to her
relief, and Valancourt watched in anxious silence over her. In a few
moments, she recovered herself, and smiling faintly through her tears,
said, 'Can you excuse this weakness? My spirits have not yet, I believe,
recovered from the shock they lately received.'
'I cannot excuse myself,' said Valancourt, 'but I will forbear to renew
the subject, which may have contributed to agitate them, now that I can
leave you with the sweet certainty of possessing your esteem.'
Then, forgetting his resolution, he again spoke of himself. 'You know
not,' said he, 'the many anxious hours I have passed near you lately,
when you believed me, if indeed you honoured me with a thought, far
away. I have wandered, near the chateau, in the still hours of the
night, when no eye could observe me. It was delightful to know I was so
near you, and there was something particularly soothing in the thought,
that I watched round your habitation, while you slept. These grounds are
not entirely new to me. Once I ventured within the fence, and spent one
of the happiest, and yet most melancholy hours of my life in walking
under what I believed to be your window.'
Emily enquired how long Valancourt had been in the neighbourhood.
'Several days,' he replied. 'It was my design to avail myself of the
permission M. St. Aubert had given me. I scarcely know how to account
for it; but, though I anxiously wished to do this, my resolution always
failed, when the moment approached, and I constantly deferred my visit.
I lodged in a village at some distance, and wandered with my dogs, among
the scenes of this charming country, wishing continually to meet you,
yet not daring to visit you.'
Having thus continued to converse, without perceiving the flight of
time, Valancourt, at length, seemed to recollect himself. 'I must go,'
said he mournfully, 'but it is with the hope of seeing you again, of
being permitted to pay my respects to your family; let me hear this hope
confirmed by your voice.' 'My family will be happy to see any friend
of my dear father,' said Emily. Valancourt kissed her hand, and still
lingered, unable to depart, while Emily sat silently, with her eyes bent
on the ground; and Valancourt, as he gazed on her, considered that it
would soon be impossible for him to recall, even to his memory, the
exact resemblance of the beautiful countenance he then beheld; at this
moment an hasty footstep approached from behind the plane-tree, and,
turning her eyes, Emily saw Madame Cheron. She felt a blush steal upon
her cheek, and her frame trembled with the emotion of her mind; but she
instantly rose to meet her visitor. 'So, niece!' said Madame Cheron,
casting a look of surprise and enquiry on Valancourt, 'so niece, how
do you do? But I need not ask, your looks tell me you have already
recovered your loss.'