She was struck by the apparent
talents and knowledge displayed in the various conversations she
listened to, and it was long before she discovered, that the talents
were for the most part those of imposture, and the knowledge nothing
more than was necessary to assist them. But what deceived her most, was
the air of constant gaiety and good spirits, displayed by every
visitor, and which she supposed to arise from content as constant, and
from benevolence as ready. At length, from the over-acting of some,
less accomplished than the others, she could perceive, that, though
contentment and benevolence are the only sure sources of cheerfulness,
the immoderate and feverish animation, usually exhibited in large
parties, results partly from an insensibility to the cares, which
benevolence must sometimes derive from the sufferings of others, and
partly from a desire to display the appearance of that prosperity,
which they know will command submission and attention to themselves. Emily’s pleasantest hours were passed in the pavilion of the terrace,
to which she retired, when she could steal from observation, with a
book to overcome, or a lute to indulge, her melancholy. There, as she
sat with her eyes fixed on the far-distant Pyrenees, and her thoughts
on Valancourt and the beloved scenes of Gascony, she would play the
sweet and melancholy songs of her native province—the popular songs she
had listened to from her childhood. One evening, having excused herself from accompanying her aunt abroad,
she thus withdrew to the pavilion, with books and her lute. It was the
mild and beautiful evening of a sultry day, and the windows, which
fronted the west, opened upon all the glory of a setting sun. Its rays
illuminated, with strong splendour, the cliffs of the Pyrenees, and
touched their snowy tops with a roseate hue, that remained, long after
the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the shades of twilight had
stolen over the landscape. Emily touched her lute with that fine
melancholy expression, which came from her heart. The pensive hour and
the scene, the evening light on the Garonne, that flowed at no great
distance, and whose waves, as they passed towards La Vallée, she often
viewed with a sigh—these united circumstances disposed her mind to
tenderness, and her thoughts were with Valancourt, of whom she had
heard nothing since her arrival at Thoulouse, and now that she was
removed from him, and in uncertainty, she perceived all the interest he
held in her heart. Before she saw Valancourt she had never met a mind
and taste so accordant with her own, and, though Madame Cheron told her
much of the arts of dissimulation, and that the elegance and propriety
of thought, which she so much admired in her lover, were assumed for
the purpose of pleasing her, she could scarcely doubt their truth. This
possibility, however, faint as it was, was sufficient to harass her
mind with anxiety, and she found, that few conditions are more painful
than that of uncertainty, as to the merit of a beloved object; an
uncertainty, which she would not have suffered, had her confidence in
her own opinions been greater. She was awakened from her musing by the sound of horses’ feet along a
road, that wound under the windows of the pavilion, and a gentleman
passed on horseback, whose resemblance to Valancourt, in air and
figure, for the twilight did not permit a view of his features,
immediately struck her. She retired hastily from the lattice, fearing
to be seen, yet wishing to observe further, while the stranger passed
on without looking up, and, when she returned to the lattice, she saw
him faintly through the twilight, winding under the high trees, that
led to Thoulouse. This little incident so much disturbed her spirits,
that the temple and its scenery were no longer interesting to her, and,
after walking a while on the terrace, she returned to the château. Madame Cheron, whether she had seen a rival admired, had lost at play,
or had witnessed an entertainment more splendid than her own, was
returned from her visit with a temper more than usually discomposed;
and Emily was glad, when the hour arrived, in which she could retire to
the solitude of her own apartment. On the following morning, she was summoned to Madame Cheron, whose
countenance was inflamed with resentment, and, as Emily advanced, she
held out a letter to her. “Do you know this hand?” said she, in a severe tone, and with a look
that was intended to search her heart, while Emily examined the letter
attentively, and assured her, that she did not. “Do not provoke me,” said her aunt; “you do know it, confess the truth
immediately. I insist upon your confessing the truth instantly.”

Emily was silent, and turned to leave the room, but Madame called her
back. “O you are guilty, then,” said she, “you do know the hand.” “If
you were before in doubt of this, madam,” replied Emily calmly, “why
did you accuse me of having told a falsehood.” Madame Cheron did not
blush; but her niece did, a moment after, when she heard the name of
Valancourt. It was not, however, with the consciousness of deserving
reproof, for, if she ever had seen his hand-writing, the present
characters did not bring it to her recollection. “It is useless to deny it,” said Madame Cheron, “I see in your
countenance, that you are no stranger to this letter; and, I dare say,
you have received many such from this impertinent young man, without my
knowledge, in my own house.”

Emily, shocked at the indelicacy of this accusation, still more than by
the vulgarity of the former, instantly forgot the pride, that had
imposed silence, and endeavoured to vindicate herself from the
aspersion, but Madame Cheron was not to be convinced. “I cannot suppose,” she resumed, “that this young man would have taken
the liberty of writing to me, if you had not encouraged him to do so,
and I must now”

“You will allow me to remind you, madam,” said Emily timidly, “of some
particulars of a conversation we had at La Vallée. I then told you
truly, that I had only not forbade Monsieur Valancourt from addressing
my family.”

“I will not be interrupted,” said Madame Cheron, interrupting her
niece, “I was going to say—I—I—have forgot what I was going to say. But
how happened it that you did not forbid him?” Emily was silent. “How
happened it that you encouraged him to trouble me with this letter?—A
young man that nobody knows;—an utter stranger in the place,—a young
adventurer, no doubt, who is looking out for a good fortune. However,
on that point he has mistaken his aim.”

“His family was known to my father,” said Emily modestly, and without
appearing to be sensible of the last sentence. “O! that is no recommendation at all,” replied her aunt, with her usual
readiness upon this topic; “he took such strange fancies to people!