Why should we confide the happiness of our whole
lives to the will of people, who have no right to interrupt, and,
except in giving you to me, have no power to promote it? O Emily! venture to trust your own heart, venture to be mine for ever!” His
voice trembled, and he was silent; Emily continued to weep, and was
silent also, when Valancourt proceeded to propose an immediate
marriage, and that at an early hour on the following morning, she
should quit Madame Montoni’s house, and be conducted by him to the
church of the Augustines, where a friar should await to unite them. The silence, with which she listened to a proposal, dictated by love
and despair, and enforced at a moment, when it seemed scarcely possible
for her to oppose it;—when her heart was softened by the sorrows of a
separation, that might be eternal, and her reason obscured by the
illusions of love and terror, encouraged him to hope, that it would not
be rejected. “Speak, my Emily!” said Valancourt eagerly, “let me hear
your voice, let me hear you confirm my fate.” she spoke not; her cheek
was cold, and her senses seemed to fail her, but she did not faint. To
Valancourt’s terrified imagination she appeared to be dying; he called
upon her name, rose to go to the château for assistance, and then,
recollecting her situation, feared to go, or to leave her for a moment. After a few minutes, she drew a deep sigh, and began to revive. The
conflict she had suffered, between love and the duty she at present
owed to her father’s sister; her repugnance to a clandestine marriage,
her fear of emerging on the world with embarrassments, such as might
ultimately involve the object of her affection in misery and
repentance;—all this various interest was too powerful for a mind,
already enervated by sorrow, and her reason had suffered a transient
suspension. But duty, and good sense, however hard the conflict, at
length, triumphed over affection and mournful presentiment; above all,
she dreaded to involve Valancourt in obscurity and vain regret, which
she saw, or thought she saw, must be the too certain consequence of a
marriage in their present circumstances; and she acted, perhaps, with
somewhat more than female fortitude, when she resolved to endure a
present, rather than provoke a distant misfortune. With a candour, that proved how truly she esteemed and loved him, and
which endeared her to him, if possible, more than ever, she told
Valancourt all her reasons for rejecting his proposals. Those, which
influenced her concerning his future welfare, he instantly refuted, or
rather contradicted; but they awakened tender considerations for her,
which the frenzy of passion and despair had concealed before, and love,
which had but lately prompted him to propose a clandestine and
immediate marriage, now induced him to renounce it. The triumph was
almost too much for his heart; for Emily’s sake, he endeavoured to
stifle his grief, but the swelling anguish would not be restrained. “O
Emily!” said he, “I must leave you—I _must_ leave you, and I know it is
for ever!”

Convulsive sobs again interrupted his words, and they wept together in
silence, till Emily, recollecting the danger of being discovered, and
the impropriety of prolonging an interview, which might subject her to
censure, summoned all her fortitude to utter a last farewell. “Stay!” said Valancourt, “I conjure you stay, for I have much to tell
you. The agitation of my mind has hitherto suffered me to speak only on
the subject that occupied it;—I have forborne to mention a doubt of
much importance, partly, lest it should appear as if I told it with an
ungenerous view of alarming you into a compliance with my late
proposal.”

Emily, much agitated, did not leave Valancourt, but she led him from
the pavilion, and, as they walked upon the terrace, he proceeded as
follows:

“This Montoni: I have heard some strange hints concerning him. Are you
certain he is of Madame Quesnel’s family, and that his fortune is what
it appears to be?”

“I have no reason to doubt either,” replied Emily, in a voice of alarm. “Of the first, indeed, I cannot doubt, but I have no certain means of
judging of the latter, and I entreat you will tell me all you have
heard.”

“That I certainly will, but it is very imperfect, and unsatisfactory
information. I gathered it by accident from an Italian, who was
speaking to another person of this Montoni. They were talking of his
marriage; the Italian said, that if he was the person he meant, he was
not likely to make Madame Cheron happy. He proceeded to speak of him in
general terms of dislike, and then gave some particular hints,
concerning his character, that excited my curiosity, and I ventured to
ask him a few questions. He was reserved in his replies, but, after
hesitating for some time, he owned, that he had understood abroad, that
Montoni was a man of desperate fortune and character. He said something
of a castle of Montoni’s, situated among the Apennines, and of some
strange circumstances, that might be mentioned, as to his former mode
of life. I pressed him to inform me further, but I believe the strong
interest I felt was visible in my manner, and alarmed him; for no
entreaties could prevail with him to give any explanation of the
circumstances he had alluded to, or to mention anything further
concerning Montoni. I observed to him, that, if Montoni was possessed
of a castle in the Apennines, it appeared from such a circumstance,
that he was of some family, and also seemed to contradict the report,
that he was a man of entirely broken fortunes. He shook his head, and
looked as if he could have said a great deal, but made no reply. “A hope of learning something more satisfactory, or more positive,
detained me in his company a considerable time, and I renewed the
subject repeatedly, but the Italian wrapped himself up in reserve,
said—that what he had mentioned he had caught only from a floating
report, and that reports frequently arose from personal malice, and
were very little to be depended upon. I forbore to press the subject
farther, since it was obvious that he was alarmed for the consequence
of what he had already said, and I was compelled to remain in
uncertainty on a point where suspense is almost intolerable. Think,
Emily, what I must suffer to see you depart for a foreign country,
committed to the power of a man of such doubtful character as is this
Montoni! But I will not alarm you unnecessarily;—it is possible, as the
Italian said, at first, that this is not the Montoni he alluded to. Yet, Emily, consider well before you resolve to commit yourself to him. O! I must not trust myself to speak—or I shall renounce all the
motives, which so lately influenced me to resign the hope of your
becoming mine immediately.”

Valancourt walked upon the terrace with hurried steps, while Emily
remained leaning on the balustrade in deep thought.