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  CHAPTER X

  Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer's cloud, Without our special wonder? MACBETH

  On the next morning, Emily ordered a fire to be lighted in the stoveof the chamber, where St. Aubert used to sleep; and, as soon as she hadbreakfasted, went thither to burn the papers. Having fastened thedoor to prevent interruption, she opened the closet where they wereconcealed, as she entered which, she felt an emotion of unusual awe,and stood for some moments surveying it, trembling, and almost afraid toremove the board. There was a great chair in one corner of the closet,and, opposite to it, stood the table, at which she had seen her fathersit, on the evening that preceded his departure, looking over, with somuch emotion, what she believed to be these very papers.

  The solitary life, which Emily had led of late, and the melancholysubjects, on which she had suffered her thoughts to dwell, had renderedher at times sensible to the 'thick-coming fancies' of a mind greatlyenervated. It was lamentable, that her excellent understanding shouldhave yielded, even for a moment, to the reveries of superstition, orrather to those starts of imagination, which deceive the senses intowhat can be called nothing less than momentary madness. Instances ofthis temporary failure of mind had more than once occurred since herreturn home; particularly when, wandering through this lonely mansion inthe evening twilight, she had been alarmed by appearances, which wouldhave been unseen in her more cheerful days. To this infirm state of hernerves may be attributed what she imagined, when, her eyes glancinga second time on the arm-chair, which stood in an obscure part of thecloset, the countenance of her dead father appeared there. Emily stoodfixed for a moment to the floor, after which she left the closet.Her spirits, however, soon returned; she reproached herself with theweakness of thus suffering interruption in an act of serious importance,and again opened the door. By the directions which St. Aubert had givenher, she readily found the board he had described in an opposite cornerof the closet, near the window; she distinguished also the line hehad mentioned, and, pressing it as he had bade her, it slid down, anddisclosed the bundle of papers, together with some scattered ones, andthe purse of louis. With a trembling hand she removed them, replaced theboard, paused a moment, and was rising from the floor, when, on lookingup, there appeared to her alarmed fancy the same countenance in thechair. The illusion, another instance of the unhappy effect whichsolitude and grief had gradually produced upon her mind, subdued herspirits; she rushed forward into the chamber, and sunk almost senselessinto a chair. Returning reason soon overcame the dreadful, but pitiableattack of imagination, and she turned to the papers, though still withso little recollection, that her eyes involuntarily settled on thewriting of some loose sheets, which lay open; and she was unconscious,that she was transgressing her father's strict injunction, till asentence of dreadful import awakened her attention and her memorytogether. She hastily put the papers from her; but the words, which hadroused equally her curiosity and terror, she could not dismiss from herthoughts. So powerfully had they affected her, that she even could notresolve to destroy the papers immediately; and the more she dwelt on thecircumstance, the more it inflamed her imagination. Urged by the mostforcible, and apparently the most necessary, curiosity to enquirefarther, concerning the terrible and mysterious subject, to which shehad seen an allusion, she began to lament her promise to destroy thepapers. For a moment, she even doubted, whether it could justly beobeyed, in contradiction to such reasons as there appeared to be forfurther information. But the delusion was momentary.

  'I have given a solemn promise,' said she, 'to observe a solemninjunction, and it is not my business to argue, but to obey. Let mehasten to remove the temptation, that would destroy my innocence, andembitter my life with the consciousness of irremediable guilt, while Ihave strength to reject it.'

  Thus re-animated with a sense of her duty, she completed the triumphof her integrity over temptation, more forcible than any she had everknown, and consigned the papers to the flames. Her eyes watched them asthey slowly consumed, she shuddered at the recollection of the sentenceshe had just seen, and at the certainty, that the only opportunity ofexplaining it was then passing away for ever.

  It was long after this, that she recollected the purse; and as she wasdepositing it, unopened, in a cabinet, perceiving that it containedsomething of a size larger than coin, she examined it. 'His handdeposited them here,' said she, as she kissed some pieces of the coin,and wetted them with her tears, 'his hand--which is now dust!' At thebottom of the purse was a small packet, having taken out which, andunfolded paper after paper, she found to be an ivory case, containingthe miniature of a--lady! She started--'The same,' said she, 'my fatherwept over!' On examining the countenance she could recollect no personthat it resembled. It was of uncommon beauty, and was characterizedby an expression of sweetness, shaded with sorrow, and tempered byresignation.

  St. Aubert had given no directions concerning this picture, nor had evennamed it; she, therefore, thought herself justified in preservingit. More than once remembering his manner, when he had spoken of theMarchioness of Villeroi, she felt inclined to believe that this was herresemblance; yet there appeared no reason why he should have preserved apicture of that lady, or, having preserved it, why he should lament overit in a manner so striking and affecting as she had witnessed on thenight preceding his departure.

  Emily still gazed on the countenance, examining its features, but sheknew not where to detect the charm that captivated her attention,and inspired sentiments of such love and pity. Dark brown hair playedcarelessly along the open forehead; the nose was rather inclined toaquiline; the lips spoke in a smile, but it was a melancholy one; theeyes were blue, and were directed upwards with an expression of peculiarmeekness, while the soft cloud of the brow spoke of the fine sensibilityof the temper.

  Emily was roused from the musing mood into which the picture had thrownher, by the closing of the garden gate; and, on turning her eyes tothe window, she saw Valancourt coming towards the chateau. Her spiritsagitated by the subjects that had lately occupied her mind, she feltunprepared to see him, and remained a few moments in the chamber torecover herself.

  When she met him in the parlour, she was struck with the change thatappeared in his air and countenance since they had parted in Rousillon,which twilight and the distress she suffered on the preceding eveninghad prevented her from observing. But dejection and languor disappeared,for a moment, in the smile that now enlightened his countenance, onperceiving her. 'You see,' said he, 'I have availed myself of thepermission with which you honoured me--of bidding YOU farewell, whom Ihad the happiness of meeting only yesterday.'

  Emily smiled faintly, and, anxious to say something, asked if he hadbeen long in Gascony. 'A few days only,' replied Valancourt, while ablush passed over his cheek. 'I engaged in a long ramble after I had themisfortune of parting with the friends who had made my wanderings amongthe Pyrenees so delightful.'

  A tear came to Emily's eye, as Valancourt said this, which he observed;and, anxious to draw off her attention from the remembrance that hadoccasioned it, as well as shocked at his own thoughtlessness, he beganto speak on other subjects, expressing his admiration of the chateau,and its prospects. Emily, who felt somewhat embarrassed how to supporta conversation, was glad of such an opportunity to continue it onindifferent topics. They walked down to the terrace, where Valancourtwas charmed with the river scenery, and the views over the oppositeshores of Guienne.

  As he leaned on the wall of the terrace, watching the rapid current ofthe Garonne, 'I was a few weeks ago,' said he, 'at the source of thisnoble river; I had not then the happiness of knowing you, or I shouldhave regretted your absence--it was a scene so exactly suited toyour taste. It rises in a part of the Pyrenees, still wilder and moresublime, I think, than any we passed in the way to Rousillon.' He thendescribed its fall among the precipices of the mountains, where itswaters, augmented by the streams that descend from the snowy summitsaround, rush into the Vallee d'Aran, between whose romantic heights itfoams al
ong, pursuing its way to the north west till it emerges upon theplains of Languedoc. Then, washing the walls of Tholouse, and turningagain to the north west, it assumes a milder character, as it fertilizesthe pastures of Gascony and Guienne, in its progress to the Bay ofBiscay.

  Emily and Valancourt talked of the scenes they had passed amongthe Pyrenean Alps; as he spoke of which there was often a tremuloustenderness in his voice, and sometimes he expatiated on them with allthe fire of genius, sometimes would appear scarcely conscious of thetopic, though he continued to speak. This subject recalled forcibly toEmily the idea of her father, whose image appeared in every landscape,which Valancourt particularized, whose remarks dwelt upon her memory,and whose enthusiasm still glowed in her heart. Her silence, at length,reminded Valancourt how nearly his conversation approached to theoccasion of her grief, and he changed the subject, though for onescarcely less affecting to Emily. When he admired the grandeur of theplane-tree, that spread its wide branches over the terrace, and underwhose shade they now sat, she remembered how often she had sat thus withSt. Aubert, and heard him express the same admiration.

  'This was a favourite tree with my dear father,' said she; 'he used tolove to sit under its foliage with his family about him, in the fineevenings of summer.'

  Valancourt understood her feelings, and was silent; had she raised hereyes from the ground she would have seen tears in his. He rose, andleaned on the wall of the terrace, from which, in a few moments, hereturned to his seat, then rose again, and appeared to be greatlyagitated; while Emily found her spirits so much depressed, that severalof her attempts to renew the conversation were ineffectual. Valancourtagain sat down, but was still silent, and trembled. At length he said,with a hesitating voice, 'This lovely scene!--I am going to leave--toleave you--perhaps for ever! These moments may never return; I cannotresolve to neglect, though I scarcely dare to avail myself of them. Letme, however, without offending the delicacy of your sorrow, venture todeclare the admiration I must always feel of your goodness--O! that atsome future period I might be permitted to call it love!'

  Emily's emotion would not suffer her to reply; and Valancourt, who nowventured to look up, observing her countenance change, expected to seeher faint, and made an involuntary effort to support her, which recalledEmily to a sense of her situation, and to an exertion of her spirits.Valancourt did not appear to notice her indisposition, but, when hespoke again, his voice told the tenderest love. 'I will not presume,' headded, 'to intrude this subject longer upon your attention at this time,but I may, perhaps, be permitted to mention, that these parting momentswould lose much of their bitterness if I might be allowed to hope thedeclaration I have made would not exclude me from your presence infuture.'

  Emily made another effort to overcome the confusion of her thoughts,and to speak. She feared to trust the preference her heart acknowledgedtowards Valancourt, and to give him any encouragement for hope, on soshort an acquaintance. For though in this narrow period she had observedmuch that was admirable in his taste and disposition, and though theseobservations had been sanctioned by the opinion of her father, they werenot sufficient testimonies of his general worth to determine her upon asubject so infinitely important to her future happiness as that, whichnow solicited her attention. Yet, though the thought of dismissingValancourt was so very painful to her, that she could scarcely endure topause upon it, the consciousness of this made her fear the partiality ofher judgment, and hesitate still more to encourage that suit, for whichher own heart too tenderly pleaded. The family of Valancourt, if nothis circumstances, had been known to her father, and known to beunexceptionable. Of his circumstances, Valancourt himself hinted as faras delicacy would permit, when he said he had at present little else tooffer but an heart, that adored her. He had solicited only for a distanthope, and she could not resolve to forbid, though she scarcely dared topermit it; at length, she acquired courage to say, that she must thinkherself honoured by the good opinion of any person, whom her father hadesteemed.

  'And was I, then, thought worthy of his esteem?' said Valancourt, ina voice trembling with anxiety; then checking himself, he added, 'Butpardon the question; I scarcely know what I say. If I might dare tohope, that you think me not unworthy such honour, and might be permittedsometimes to enquire after your health, I should now leave you withcomparative tranquillity.'

  Emily, after a moment's silence, said, 'I will be ingenuous with you,for I know you will understand, and allow for my situation; you willconsider it as a proof of my--my esteem that I am so. Though I livehere in what was my father's house, I live here alone. I have, alas! nolonger a parent--a parent, whose presence might sanction your visits.It is unnecessary for me to point out the impropriety of my receivingthem.'

  'Nor will I affect to be insensible of this,' replied Valancourt, addingmournfully--'but what is to console me for my candour? I distress you,and would now leave the subject, if I might carry with me a hope ofbeing some time permitted to renew it, of being allowed to make myselfknown to your family.'

  Emily was again confused, and again hesitated what to reply; she feltmost acutely the difficulty--the forlornness of her situation, which didnot allow her a single relative, or friend, to whom she could turnfor even a look, that might support and guide her in the presentembarrassing circumstances. Madame Cheron, who was her only relative,and ought to have been this friend, was either occupied by her ownamusements, or so resentful of the reluctance her niece had shewn toquit La Vallee, that she seemed totally to have abandoned her.

  'Ah! I see,' said Valancourt, after a long pause, during which Emily hadbegun, and left unfinished two or three sentences, 'I see that I havenothing to hope; my fears were too just, you think me unworthy of youresteem. That fatal journey! which I considered as the happiest period ofmy life--those delightful days were to embitter all my future ones. Howoften I have looked back to them with hope and fear--yet never tillthis moment could I prevail with myself to regret their enchantinginfluence.'

  His voice faltered, and he abruptly quitted his seat and walked on theterrace. There was an expression of despair on his countenance, thataffected Emily. The pleadings of her heart overcame, in some degree, herextreme timidity, and, when he resumed his seat, she said, in an accentthat betrayed her tenderness, 'You do both yourself and me injusticewhen you say I think you unworthy of my esteem; I will acknowledge thatyou have long possessed it, and--and--'

  Valancourt waited impatiently for the conclusion of the sentence,but the words died on her lips. Her eyes, however, reflected all theemotions of her heart. Valancourt passed, in an instant, from theimpatience of despair, to that of joy and tenderness. 'O Emily!' heexclaimed, 'my own Emily--teach me to sustain this moment! Let me sealit as the most sacred of my life!'

  He pressed her hand to his lips, it was cold and trembling; and, raisingher eyes, he saw the paleness of her countenance. Tears came to herrelief, and Valancourt watched in anxious silence over her. In a fewmoments, 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 renewthe subject, which may have contributed to agitate them, now that I canleave you with the sweet certainty of possessing your esteem.'

  Then, forgetting his resolution, he again spoke of himself. 'You knownot,' said he, 'the many anxious hours I have passed near you lately,when you believed me, if indeed you honoured me with a thought, faraway. I have wandered, near the chateau, in the still hours of thenight, when no eye could observe me. It was delightful to know I was sonear you, and there was something particularly soothing in the thought,that I watched round your habitation, while you slept. These grounds arenot entirely new to me. Once I ventured within the fence, and spent oneof the happiest, and yet most melancholy hours of my life in walkingunder 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 thepermission M. St. Aubert had given me. I scarcely know how to accountfor it; but, though I anxiously wished to do this, my resolution alwaysfailed, when the moment approached, and I constantly deferred my visit.I lodged in a village at some distance, and wandered with my dogs, amongthe 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 oftime, Valancourt, at length, seemed to recollect himself. 'I must go,'said he mournfully, 'but it is with the hope of seeing you again, ofbeing permitted to pay my respects to your family; let me hear this hopeconfirmed by your voice.' 'My family will be happy to see any friendof my dear father,' said Emily. Valancourt kissed her hand, and stilllingered, unable to depart, while Emily sat silently, with her eyes benton the ground; and Valancourt, as he gazed on her, considered that itwould soon be impossible for him to recall, even to his memory, theexact resemblance of the beautiful countenance he then beheld; at thismoment an hasty footstep approached from behind the plane-tree, and,turning her eyes, Emily saw Madame Cheron. She felt a blush steal uponher cheek, and her frame trembled with the emotion of her mind; but sheinstantly rose to meet her visitor. 'So, niece!' said Madame Cheron,casting a look of surprise and enquiry on Valancourt, 'so niece, howdo you do? But I need not ask, your looks tell me you have alreadyrecovered your loss.'

  'My looks do me injustice then, Madame, my loss I know can never berecovered.'

  'Well--well! I will not argue with you; I see you have exactly yourfather's disposition; and let me tell you it would have been muchhappier for him, poor man! if it had been a different one.'

  A look of dignified displeasure, with which Emily regarded MadameCheron, while she spoke, would have touched almost any other heart;she made no other reply, but introduced Valancourt, who could scarcelystifle the resentment he felt, and whose bow Madame Cheron returned witha slight curtsy, and a look of supercilious examination. After a fewmoments he took leave of Emily, in a manner, that hastily expressed hispain both at his own departure, and at leaving her to the society ofMadame Cheron.

  'Who is that young man?' said her aunt, in an accent which equallyimplied inquisitiveness and censure. 'Some idle admirer of yours Isuppose; but I believed niece you had a greater sense of propriety, thanto have received the visits of any young man in your present unfriendedsituation. Let me tell you the world will observe those things, and itwill talk, aye and very freely too.'

  Emily, extremely shocked at this coarse speech, attempted to interruptit; but Madame Cheron would proceed, with all the self-importance of aperson, to whom power is new.

  'It is very necessary you should be under the eye of some person moreable to guide you than yourself. I, indeed, have not much leisure forsuch a task; however, since your poor father made it his last request,that I should overlook your conduct--I must even take you under my care.But this let me tell you niece, that, unless you will determine to bevery conformable to my direction, I shall not trouble myself longerabout you.'

  Emily made no attempt to interrupt Madame Cheron a second time, griefand the pride of conscious innocence kept her silent, till her auntsaid, 'I am now come to take you with me to Tholouse; I am sorryto find, that your poor father died, after all, in such indifferentcircumstances; however, I shall take you home with me. Ah! poor man, hewas always more generous than provident, or he would not have left hisdaughter dependent on his relations.'

  'Nor has he done so, I hope, madam,' said Emily calmly, 'nor did hispecuniary misfortunes arise from that noble generosity, which alwaysdistinguished him. The affairs of M. de Motteville may, I trust, yetbe settled without deeply injuring his creditors, and in the meantime Ishould be very happy to remain at La Vallee.'

  'No doubt you would,' replied Madame Cheron, with a smile of irony, 'andI shall no doubt consent to this, since I see how necessary tranquillityand retirement are to restore your spirits. I did not think you capableof so much duplicity, niece; when you pleaded this excuse for remaininghere, I foolishly believed it to be a just one, nor expected to havefound with you so agreeable a companion as this M. La Val--, I forgethis name.'

  Emily could no longer endure these cruel indignities. 'It was a justone, madam,' said she; 'and now, indeed, I feel more than ever the valueof the retirement I then solicited; and, if the purport of your visitis only to add insult to the sorrows of your brother's child, she couldwell have spared it.'

  'I see that I have undertaken a very troublesome task,' said MadameCheron, colouring highly. 'I am sure, madam,' said Emily mildly, andendeavouring to restrain her tears, 'I am sure my father did not mean itshould be such. I have the happiness to reflect, that my conduct underhis eye was such as he often delighted to approve. It would be verypainful to me to disobey the sister of such a parent, and, if youbelieve the task will really be so troublesome, I must lament, that itis yours.'

  'Well! niece, fine speaking signifies little. I am willing, inconsideration of my poor brother, to overlook the impropriety of yourlate conduct, and to try what your future will be.'

  Emily interrupted her, to beg she would explain what was the improprietyshe alluded to.

  'What impropriety! why that of receiving the visits of a lover unknownto your family,' replied Madame Cheron, not considering the improprietyof which she had herself been guilty, in exposing her niece to thepossibility of conduct so erroneous.

  A faint blush passed over Emily's countenance; pride and anxietystruggled in her breast; and, till she recollected, that appearancesdid, in some degree, justify her aunt's suspicions, she could notresolve to humble herself so far as to enter into the defence of aconduct, which had been so innocent and undesigning on her part. Shementioned the manner of Valancourt's introduction to her father; thecircumstances of his receiving the pistol-shot, and of their afterwardstravelling together; with the accidental way, in which she had met him,on the preceding evening. She owned he had declared a partiality forher, and that he had asked permission to address her family.

  'And who is this young adventurer, pray?' said Madame Cheron, 'and whatare his pretensions?' 'These he must himself explain, madam,' repliedEmily. 'Of his family my father was not ignorant, and I believe it isunexceptionable.' She then proceeded to mention what she knew concerningit.

  'Oh, then, this it seems is a younger brother,' exclaimed her aunt, 'andof course a beggar. A very fine tale indeed! And so my brother took afancy to this young man after only a few days acquaintance!--but thatwas so like him! In his youth he was always taking these likes anddislikes, when no other person saw any reason for them at all; nay,indeed, I have often thought the people he disapproved were much moreagreeable than those he admired;--but there is no accounting for tastes.He was always so much influenced by people's countenances; now I, for mypart, have no notion of this, it is all ridiculous enthusiasm. What hasa man's face to do with his character? Can a man of good characterhelp having a disagreeable face?'--which last sentence Madame Cherondelivered with the decisive air of a person who congratulates herselfon having made a grand discovery, and believes the question to beunanswerably settled.

  Emily, desirous of concluding the conversation, enquired if her auntwould accept some refreshment, and Madame Cheron accompanied her to thechateau, but without desisting from a topic, which she discussed with somuch complacency to herself, and severity to her niece.

  'I am sorry to perceive, niece,' said she, in allusion to somewhat thatEmily had said, concerning physiognomy, 'that you have a great many ofyour father's prejudices, and among them those sudden predilections forpeople from their looks. I can perceive, that you imagine yourself to beviolently in love with this young adventurer, after an acquaintance ofonly a few days. There was something, too, so charmingly romantic in themanner of your meeting!'

  Emily checked the tears, that trembled in her eyes, while she said,'When my conduct shall deserve this severity, madam, you will do wellto exercise it; till then justice, if not tenderness, should sur
elyrestrain it. I have never willingly offended you; now I have lost myparents, you are the only person to whom I can look for kindness. Let menot lament more than ever the loss of such parents.' The last words werealmost stifled by her emotions, and she burst into tears. Rememberingthe delicacy and the tenderness of St. Aubert, the happy, happy daysshe had passed in these scenes, and contrasting them with the coarseand unfeeling behaviour of Madame Cheron, and from the future hoursof mortification she must submit to in her presence--a degree of griefseized her, that almost reached despair. Madame Cheron, more offendedby the reproof which Emily's words conveyed, than touched by thesorrow they expressed, said nothing, that might soften her grief; but,notwithstanding an apparent reluctance to receive her niece, she desiredher company. The love of sway was her ruling passion, and she knew itwould be highly gratified by taking into her house a young orphan, whohad no appeal from her decisions, and on whom she could exercise withoutcontroul the capricious humour of the moment.

  On entering the chateau, Madame Cheron expressed a desire, that shewould put up what she thought necessary to take to Tholouse, as shemeant to set off immediately. Emily now tried to persuade her to deferthe journey, at least till the next day, and, at length, with muchdifficulty, prevailed.

  The day passed in the exercise of petty tyranny on the part of MadameCheron, and in mournful regret and melancholy anticipation on that ofEmily, who, when her aunt retired to her apartment for the night, wentto take leave of every other room in this her dear native home, whichshe was now quitting for she knew not how long, and for a world, towhich she was wholly a stranger. She could not conquer a presentiment,which frequently occurred to her, this night--that she should never morereturn to La Vallee. Having passed a considerable time in what had beenher father's study, having selected some of his favourite authors, toput up with her clothes, and shed many tears, as she wiped the dust fromtheir covers, she seated herself in his chair before the reading desk,and sat lost in melancholy reflection, till Theresa opened the door toexamine, as was her custom before she went to bed, if was all safe. Shestarted, on observing her young lady, who bade her come in, and thengave her some directions for keeping the chateau in readiness for herreception at all times.

  'Alas-a-day! that you should leave it!' said Theresa, 'I think you wouldbe happier here than where you are going, if one may judge.' Emily madeno reply to this remark; the sorrow Theresa proceeded to express ather departure affected her, but she found some comfort in the simpleaffection of this poor old servant, to whom she gave such directions asmight best conduce to her comfort during her own absence.

  Having dismissed Theresa to bed, Emily wandered through every lonelyapartment of the chateau, lingering long in what had been her father'sbed-room, indulging melancholy, yet not unpleasing, emotions, and,having often returned within the door to take another look at it, shewithdrew to her own chamber. From her window she gazed upon thegarden below, shewn faintly by the moon, rising over the tops of thepalm-trees, and, at length, the calm beauty of the night increased adesire of indulging the mournful sweetness of bidding farewel to thebeloved shades of her childhood, till she was tempted to descend.Throwing over her the light veil, in which she usually walked, shesilently passed into the garden, and, hastening towards the distantgroves, was glad to breathe once more the air of liberty, and to sighunobserved. The deep repose of the scene, the rich scents, that floatedon the breeze, the grandeur of the wide horizon and of the clearblue arch, soothed and gradually elevated her mind to that sublimecomplacency, which renders the vexations of this world so insignificantand mean in our eyes, that we wonder they have had power for a moment todisturb us. Emily forgot Madame Cheron and all the circumstances ofher conduct, while her thoughts ascended to the contemplation of thoseunnumbered worlds, that lie scattered in the depths of aether, thousandsof them hid from human eyes, and almost beyond the flight of humanfancy. As her imagination soared through the regions of space, andaspired to that Great First Cause, which pervades and governs all being,the idea of her father scarcely ever left her; but it was a pleasingidea, since she resigned him to God in the full confidence of a pure andholy faith. She pursued her way through the groves to the terrace,often pausing as memory awakened the pang of affection, and as reasonanticipated the exile, into which she was going.

  And now the moon was high over the woods, touching their summits withyellow light, and darting between the foliage long level beams; while onthe rapid Garonne below the trembling radiance was faintly obscured bythe lightest vapour. Emily long watched the playing lustre, listened tothe soothing murmur of the current, and the yet lighter sounds of theair, as it stirred, at intervals, the lofty palm-trees. 'How delightfulis the sweet breath of these groves,' said she. 'This lovely scene!--howoften shall I remember and regret it, when I am far away. Alas!what events may occur before I see it again! O, peaceful, happyshades!--scenes of my infant delights, of parental tenderness now lostfor ever!--why must I leave ye!--In your retreats I should still findsafety and repose. Sweet hours of my childhood--I am now to leave evenyour last memorials! No objects, that would revive your impressions,will remain for me!'

  Then drying her tears and looking up, her thoughts rose again to thesublime subject she had contemplated; the same divine complacency stoleover her heart, and, hushing its throbs, inspired hope and confidenceand resignation to the will of the Deity, whose works filled her mindwith adoration.

  Emily gazed long on the plane-tree, and then seated herself, for thelast time, on the bench under its shade, where she had so often sat withher parents, and where, only a few hours before, she had conversedwith Valancourt, at the remembrance of whom, thus revived, a mingledsensation of esteem, tenderness and anxiety rose in her breast. Withthis remembrance occurred a recollection of his late confession--that hehad often wandered near her habitation in the night, having even passedthe boundary of the garden, and it immediately occurred to her, thathe might be at this moment in the grounds. The fear of meeting him,particularly after the declaration he had made, and of incurring acensure, which her aunt might so reasonably bestow, if it was known,that she was met by her lover, at this hour, made her instantly leaveher beloved plane-tree, and walk towards the chateau. She cast ananxious eye around, and often stopped for a moment to examine theshadowy scene before she ventured to proceed, but she passed on withoutperceiving any person, till, having reached a clump of almond trees, notfar from the house, she rested to take a retrospect of the garden, andto sigh forth another adieu. As her eyes wandered over the landscape shethought she perceived a person emerge from the groves, and pass slowlyalong a moon-light alley that led between them; but the distance, andthe imperfect light would not suffer her to judge with any degree ofcertainty whether this was fancy or reality. She continued to gaze forsome time on the spot, till on the dead stillness of the air she hearda sudden sound, and in the next instant fancied she distinguishedfootsteps near her. Wasting not another moment in conjecture, shehurried to the chateau, and, having reached it, retired to her chamber,where, as she closed her window she looked upon the garden, and thenagain thought she distinguished a figure, gliding between the almondtrees she had just left. She immediately withdrew from the casement,and, though much agitated, sought in sleep the refreshment of a shortoblivion.