Alas! what events may occur before I see it again! O, peaceful, happy
shades!—scenes of my infant delights, of parental tenderness now lost
for ever!—why must I leave ye!—In your retreats I should still find
safety and repose. Sweet hours of my childhood—I am now to leave even
your 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 the
sublime subject she had contemplated; the same divine complacency stole
over her heart, and, hushing its throbs, inspired hope and confidence
and resignation to the will of the Deity, whose works filled her mind
with adoration. Emily gazed long on the plane-tree, and then seated herself, for the
last time, on the bench under its shade, where she had so often sat
with her parents, and where, only a few hours before, she had conversed
with Valancourt, at the remembrance of whom, thus revived, a mingled
sensation of esteem, tenderness and anxiety rose in her breast. With
this remembrance occurred a recollection of his late confession—that he
had often wandered near her habitation in the night, having even passed
the boundary of the garden, and it immediately occurred to her, that he
might be at this moment in the grounds. The fear of meeting him,
particularly after the declaration he had made, and of incurring a
censure, which her aunt might so reasonably bestow, if it was known,
that she was met by her lover, at this hour, made her instantly leave
her beloved plane-tree, and walk towards the château. She cast an
anxious eye around, and often stopped for a moment to examine the
shadowy scene before she ventured to proceed, but she passed on without
perceiving any person, till, having reached a clump of almond trees,
not far from the house, she rested to take a retrospect of the garden,
and to sigh forth another adieu. As her eyes wandered over the
landscape she thought she perceived a person emerge from the groves,
and pass slowly along a moonlight alley that led between them; but the
distance, and the imperfect light would not suffer her to judge with
any degree of certainty whether this was fancy or reality. She
continued to gaze for some time on the spot, till on the dead stillness
of the air she heard a sudden sound, and in the next instant fancied
she distinguished footsteps near her. Wasting not another moment in
conjecture, she hurried to the château, and, having reached it, retired
to her chamber, where, as she closed her window she looked upon the
garden, and then again thought she distinguished a figure, gliding
between the almond trees she had just left. She immediately withdrew
from the casement, and, though much agitated, sought in sleep the
refreshment of a short oblivion. CHAPTER XI

I leave that flowery path for eye
Of childhood, where I sported many a day,
Warbling and sauntering carelessly along;
Where every face was innocent and gay,
Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue—
Sweet, wild, and artless, all. THE MINSTREL


At an early hour, the carriage, which was to take Emily and Madame
Cheron to Thoulouse, appeared at the door of the château, and Madame
was already in the breakfast-room, when her niece entered it. The
repast was silent and melancholy on the part of Emily; and Madame
Cheron, whose vanity was piqued on observing her dejection, reproved
her in a manner that did not contribute to remove it. It was with much
reluctance, that Emily’s request to take with her the dog, which had
been a favourite of her father, was granted. Her aunt, impatient to be
gone, ordered the carriage to draw up; and, while she passed to the
hall door, Emily gave another look into the library, and another
farewell glance over the garden, and then followed. Old Theresa stood
at the door to take leave of her young lady. “God for ever keep you,
ma’amselle!” said she, while Emily gave her hand in silence, and could
answer only with a pressure of her hand, and a forced smile. At the gate, which led out of the grounds, several of her father’s
pensioners were assembled to bid her farewell, to whom she would have
spoken, if her aunt would have suffered the driver to stop; and, having
distributed to them almost all the money she had about her, she sunk
back in the carriage, yielding to the melancholy of her heart. Soon
after, she caught, between the steep banks of the road, another view of
the château, peeping from among the high trees, and surrounded by green
slopes and tufted groves, the Garonne winding its way beneath their
shades, sometimes lost among the vineyards, and then rising in greater
majesty in the distant pastures. The towering precipices of the
Pyrenees, that rose to the south, gave Emily a thousand interesting
recollections of her late journey; and these objects of her former
enthusiastic admiration, now excited only sorrow and regret. Having
gazed on the château and its lovely scenery, till the banks again
closed upon them, her mind became too much occupied by mournful
reflections, to permit her to attend to the conversation, which Madame
Cheron had begun on some trivial topic, so that they soon travelled in
profound silence. Valancourt, meanwhile, was returned to Estuvière, his heart occupied
with the image of Emily; sometimes indulging in reveries of future
happiness, but more frequently shrinking with dread of the opposition
he might encounter from her family. He was the younger son of an
ancient family of Gascony; and, having lost his parents at an early
period of his life, the care of his education and of his small portion
had devolved to his brother, the Count de Duvarney, his senior by
nearly twenty years. Valancourt had been educated in all the
accomplishments of his age, and had an ardour of spirit, and a certain
grandeur of mind, that gave him particular excellence in the exercises
then thought heroic. His little fortune had been diminished by the
necessary expences of his education; but M. La Valancourt, the elder,
seemed to think that his genius and accomplishments would amply supply
the deficiency of his inheritance. They offered flattering hopes of
promotion in the military profession, in those times almost the only
one in which a gentleman could engage without incurring a stain on his
name; and La Valancourt was of course enrolled in the army. The general
genius of his mind was but little understood by his brother. That
ardour for whatever is great and good in the moral world, as well as in
the natural one, displayed itself in his infant years; and the strong
indignation, which he felt and expressed at a criminal, or a mean
action, sometimes drew upon him the displeasure of his tutor; who
reprobated it under the general term of violence of temper; and who,
when haranguing on the virtues of mildness and moderation, seemed to
forget the gentleness and compassion, which always appeared in his
pupil towards objects of misfortune.