He
was always judging persons by their countenances, and was continually
deceived.”

“Yet it was but now, madam, that you judged me guilty by my
countenance,” said Emily, with a design of reproving Madame Cheron, to
which she was induced by this disrespectful mention of her father. “I called you here,” resumed her aunt, colouring, “to tell you, that I
will not be disturbed in my own house by any letters, or visits from
young men, who may take a fancy to flatter you. This M. de Valantine—I
think you call him, has the impertinence to beg I will permit him to
pay his respects to me! I shall send him a proper answer. And for you,
Emily, I repeat it once for all—if you are not contented to conform to
my directions, and to my way of live, I shall give up the task of
overlooking your conduct—I shall no longer trouble myself with your
education, but shall send you to board in a convent.”

“Dear madam,” said Emily, bursting into tears, and overcome by the rude
suspicions her aunt had expressed, “how have I deserved these
reproofs?” She could say no more; and so very fearful was she of acting
with any degree of impropriety in the affair itself, that, at the
present moment, Madame Cheron might perhaps have prevailed with her to
bind herself by a promise to renounce Valancourt for ever. Her mind,
weakened by her terrors, would no longer suffer her to view him as she
had formerly done; she feared the error of her own judgment, not that
of Madame Cheron, and feared also, that, in her former conversation
with him, at La Vallée, she had not conducted herself with sufficient
reserve. She knew, that she did not deserve the coarse suspicions,
which her aunt had thrown out, but a thousand scruples rose to torment
her, such as would never have disturbed the peace of Madame Cheron. Thus rendered anxious to avoid every opportunity of erring, and willing
to submit to any restrictions, that her aunt should think proper, she
expressed an obedience, to which Madame Cheron did not give much
confidence, and which she seemed to consider as the consequence of
either fear, or artifice. “Well, then,” said she, “promise me that you will neither see this
young man, nor write to him without my consent.” “Dear madam,” replied
Emily, “can you suppose I would do either, unknown to you!” “I don’t
know what to suppose; there is no knowing how young women will act. It
is difficult to place any confidence in them, for they have seldom
sense enough to wish for the respect of the world.”

“Alas, madam!” said Emily, “I am anxious for my own respect; my father
taught me the value of that; he said if I deserved my own esteem, that
the world would follow of course.”

“My brother was a good kind of a man,” replied Madame Cheron, “but he
did not know the world. I am sure I have always felt a proper respect
for myself, yet—” she stopped, but she might have added, that the world
had not always shown respect to her, and this without impeaching its
judgment. “Well!” resumed Madame Cheron, “you have not given me the promise,
though, that I demand.”

Emily readily gave it, and, being then suffered to withdraw, she walked
in the garden; tried to compose her spirits, and, at length, arrived at
her favourite pavilion at the end of the terrace, where, seating
herself at one of the embowered windows, that opened upon a balcony,
the stillness and seclusion of the scene allowed her to recollect her
thoughts, and to arrange them so as to form a clearer judgment of her
former conduct. She endeavoured to review with exactness all the
particulars of her conversation with Valancourt at La Vallée, had the
satisfaction to observe nothing, that could alarm her delicate pride,
and thus to be confirmed in the self-esteem, which was so necessary to
her peace. Her mind then became tranquil, and she saw Valancourt
amiable and intelligent, as he had formerly appeared, and Madame Cheron
neither the one, nor the other. The remembrance of her lover, however,
brought with it many very painful emotions, for it by no means
reconciled her to the thought of resigning him; and, Madame Cheron
having already shown how highly she disapproved of the attachment, she
foresaw much suffering from the opposition of interests; yet with all
this was mingled a degree of delight, which, in spite of reason,
partook of hope. She determined, however, that no consideration should
induce her to permit a clandestine correspondence, and to observe in
her conversation with Valancourt, should they ever meet again, the same
nicety of reserve, which had hitherto marked her conduct. As she
repeated the words—“should we ever meet again!” she shrunk as if this
was a circumstance, which had never before occurred to her, and tears
came to her eyes, which she hastily dried, for she heard footsteps
approaching, and then the door of the pavilion open, and, on turning,
she saw—Valancourt. An emotion of mingled pleasure, surprise and apprehension pressed so
suddenly upon her heart as almost to overcome her spirits; the colour
left her cheeks, then returned brighter than before, and she was for a
moment unable to speak, or to rise from her chair. His countenance was
the mirror, in which she saw her own emotions reflected, and it roused
her to self-command. The joy, which had animated his features, when he
entered the pavilion, was suddenly repressed, as, approaching, he
perceived her agitation, and, in a tremulous voice, enquired after her
health. Recovered from her first surprise, she answered him with a
tempered smile; but a variety of opposite emotions still assailed her
heart, and struggled to subdue the mild dignity of her manner. It was
difficult to tell which predominated—the joy of seeing Valancourt, or
the terror of her aunt’s displeasure, when she should hear of this
meeting. After some short and embarrassed conversation, she led him
into the gardens, and enquired if he had seen Madame Cheron. “No,” said
he, “I have not yet seen her, for they told me she was engaged, and as
soon as I learned that you were in the gardens, I came hither.” He
paused a moment, in great agitation, and then added, “May I venture to
tell you the purport of my visit, without incurring your displeasure,
and to hope, that you will not accuse me of precipitation in now
availing myself of the permission you once gave me of addressing your
family?” Emily, who knew not what to reply, was spared from further
perplexity, and was sensible only of fear, when on raising her eyes,
she saw Madame Cheron turn into the avenue. As the consciousness of
innocence returned, this fear was so far dissipated as to permit her to
appear tranquil, and, instead of avoiding her aunt, she advanced with
Valancourt to meet her.