While she yet paced the room, the still, soft note of an oboe, or
flute, was heard mingling with the blast, the sweetness of which
affected Emily’s spirits; she paused a moment in attention; the tender
tones, as they swelled along the wind, till they were lost again in the
ruder gust, came with a plaintiveness, that touched her heart, and she
melted into tears. “Aye,” said Theresa, drying her eyes, “there is Richard, our
neighbour’s son, playing on the oboe; it is sad enough, to hear such
sweet music now.” Emily continued to weep, without replying. “He often
plays of an evening,” added Theresa, “and, sometimes, the young folks
dance to the sound of his oboe. But, dear young lady! do not cry so;
and pray take a glass of this wine,” continued she, pouring some into a
glass, and handing it to Emily, who reluctantly took it. “Taste it for M. Valancourt’s sake,” said Theresa, as Emily lifted the
glass to her lips, “for he gave it me, you know, madam.” Emily’s hand
trembled, and she spilt the wine as she withdrew it from her lips. “For
whose sake!—who gave the wine?” said she in a faltering voice. “M. Valancourt, dear lady. I knew you would be pleased with it. It is the
last flask I have left.”

Emily set the wine upon the table, and burst into tears, while Theresa,
disappointed and alarmed, tried to comfort her; but she only waved her
hand, entreated she might be left alone, and wept the more. A knock at the cottage door prevented Theresa from immediately obeying
her mistress, and she was going to open it, when Emily, checking her,
requested she would not admit any person; but, afterwards,
recollecting, that she had ordered her servant to attend her home, she
said it was only Philippe, and endeavoured to restrain her tears, while
Theresa opened the door. A voice, that spoke without, drew Emily’s attention. She listened,
turned her eyes to the door, when a person now appeared, and
immediately a bright gleam, that flashed from the fire,
discovered—Valancourt! Emily, on perceiving him, started from her chair, trembled, and,
sinking into it again, became insensible to all around her. A scream from Theresa now told, that she knew Valancourt, whom her
imperfect sight, and the duskiness of the place had prevented her from
immediately recollecting; but his attention was immediately called from
her to the person, whom he saw, falling from a chair near the fire;
and, hastening to her assistance,—he perceived, that he was supporting
Emily! The various emotions, that seized him upon thus unexpectedly
meeting with her, from whom he had believed he had parted for ever, and
on beholding her pale and lifeless in his arms—may, perhaps, be
imagined, though they could neither be then expressed, nor now
described, any more than Emily’s sensations, when, at length, she
unclosed her eyes, and, looking up, again saw Valancourt. The intense
anxiety, with which he regarded her, was instantly changed to an
expression of mingled joy and tenderness, as his eye met hers, and he
perceived, that she was reviving. But he could only exclaim, “Emily!”
as he silently watched her recovery, while she averted her eye, and
feebly attempted to withdraw her hand; but, in these the first moments,
which succeeded to the pangs his supposed death had occasioned her, she
forgot every fault, which had formerly claimed indignation, and
beholding Valancourt such as he had appeared, when he won her early
affection, she experienced emotions of only tenderness and joy. This,
alas! was but the sunshine of a few short moments; recollections rose,
like clouds, upon her mind, and, darkening the illusive image, that
possessed it, she again beheld Valancourt, degraded—Valancourt unworthy
of the esteem and tenderness she had once bestowed upon him; her
spirits faltered, and, withdrawing her hand, she turned from him to
conceal her grief, while he, yet more embarrassed and agitated,
remained silent. A sense of what she owed to herself restrained her tears, and taught
her soon to overcome, in some degree, the emotions of mingled joy and
sorrow, that contended at her heart, as she rose, and, having thanked
him for the assistance he had given her, bade Theresa good evening. As
she was leaving the cottage, Valancourt, who seemed suddenly awakened
as from a dream, entreated, in a voice, that pleaded powerfully for
compassion, a few moments attention. Emily’s heart, perhaps, pleaded as
powerfully, but she had resolution enough to resist both, together with
the clamorous entreaties of Theresa, that she would not venture home
alone in the dark, and had already opened the cottage door, when the
pelting storm compelled her to obey their requests. 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 were 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 shown 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 anybody 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.