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 a 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.”

“My looks do me injustice then, Madame, my loss I know can never be
recovered.”

“Well—well! I will not argue with you; I see you have exactly your
father’s disposition; and let me tell you it would have been much
happier for him, poor man! if it had been a different one.”

A look of dignified displeasure, with which Emily regarded Madame
Cheron, while she spoke, would have touched almost any other heart; she
made no other reply, but introduced Valancourt, who could scarcely
stifle the resentment he felt, and whose bow Madame Cheron returned
with a slight curtsy, and a look of supercilious examination. After a
few moments he took leave of Emily, in a manner, that hastily expressed
his pain both at his own departure, and at leaving her to the society
of Madame Cheron. “Who is that young man?” said her aunt, in an accent which equally
implied inquisitiveness and censure. “Some idle admirer of yours I
suppose; but I believed niece you had a greater sense of propriety,
than to have received the visits of any young man in your present
unfriended situation. Let me tell you the world will observe those
things, and it will talk, aye and very freely too.”

Emily, extremely shocked at this coarse speech, attempted to interrupt
it; but Madame Cheron would proceed, with all the self-importance of a
person, to whom power is new. “It is very necessary you should be under the eye of some person more
able to guide you than yourself. I, indeed, have not much leisure for
such 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 be
very conformable to my direction, I shall not trouble myself longer
about you.”

Emily made no attempt to interrupt Madame Cheron a second time, grief
and the pride of conscious innocence kept her silent, till her aunt
said, “I am now come to take you with me to Thoulouse; I am sorry to
find, that your poor father died, after all, in such indifferent
circumstances; however, I shall take you home with me. Ah! poor man, he
was always more generous than provident, or he would not have left his
daughter dependent on his relations.”

“Nor has he done so, I hope, madam,” said Emily calmly, “nor did his
pecuniary misfortunes arise from that noble generosity, which always
distinguished him. The affairs of M. de Motteville may, I trust, yet be
settled without deeply injuring his creditors, and in the meantime I
should be very happy to remain at La Vallée.”

“No doubt you would,” replied Madame Cheron, with a smile of irony,
“and I shall no doubt consent to this, since I see how necessary
tranquillity and retirement are to restore your spirits. I did not
think you capable of so much duplicity, niece; when you pleaded this
excuse for remaining here, I foolishly believed it to be a just one,
nor expected to have found with you so agreeable a companion as this M.
La Val—, I forget his name.”

Emily could no longer endure these cruel indignities. “It was a just
one, madam,” said she; “and now, indeed, I feel more than ever the
value of the retirement I then solicited; and, if the purport of your
visit is only to add insult to the sorrows of your brother’s child, she
could well have spared it.”

“I see that I have undertaken a very troublesome task,” said Madame
Cheron, colouring highly. “I am sure, madam,” said Emily mildly, and
endeavouring to restrain her tears, “I am sure my father did not mean
it should be such. I have the happiness to reflect, that my conduct
under his eye was such as he often delighted to approve. It would be
very painful to me to disobey the sister of such a parent, and, if you
believe the task will really be so troublesome, I must lament, that it
is yours.”

“Well! niece, fine speaking signifies little. I am willing, in
consideration of my poor brother, to overlook the impropriety of your
late conduct, and to try what your future will be.”

Emily interrupted her, to beg she would explain what was the
impropriety she alluded to. “What impropriety! why that of receiving the visits of a lover unknown
to your family,” replied Madame Cheron, not considering the impropriety
of which she had herself been guilty, in exposing her niece to the
possibility of conduct so erroneous. A faint blush passed over Emily’s countenance; pride and anxiety
struggled in her breast; and, till she recollected, that appearances
did, in some degree, justify her aunt’s suspicions, she could not
resolve to humble herself so far as to enter into the defence of a
conduct, which had been so innocent and undesigning on her part. She
mentioned the manner of Valancourt’s introduction to her father; the
circumstances of his receiving the pistol-shot, and of their afterwards
travelling together; with the accidental way, in which she had met him,
on the preceding evening. She owned he had declared a partiality for
her, and that he had asked permission to address her family. “And who is this young adventurer, pray?” said Madame Cheron, “and what
are his pretensions?” “These he must himself explain, madam,” replied
Emily. “Of his family my father was not ignorant, and I believe it is
unexceptionable.” She then proceeded to mention what she knew
concerning it. “Oh, then, this it seems is a younger brother,” exclaimed her aunt,
“and of course a beggar. A very fine tale indeed! And so my brother
took a fancy to this young man after only a few days acquaintance!—but
that was so like him!