But, perceiving nothing that
could justify it, she ascended to the terrace, where the moonlight
showed the long broad walk, with the pavilion at its extremity, while
the rays silvered the foliage of the high trees and shrubs, that
bordered it on the right, and the tufted summits of those, that rose to
a level with the balustrade on the left, from the garden below. Her
distance from the château again alarming her, she paused to listen; the
night was so calm, that no sound could have escaped her, but she heard
only the plaintive sweetness of the nightingale, with the light shiver
of the leaves, and she pursued her way towards the pavilion, having
reached which, its obscurity did not prevent the emotion, that a fuller
view of its well-known scene would have excited. The lattices were
thrown back, and showed beyond their embowered arch the moonlight
landscape, shadowy and soft; its groves, and plains extending gradually
and indistinctly to the eye, its distant mountains catching a stronger
gleam, and the nearer river reflecting the moon, and trembling to her
rays. Emily, as she approached the lattice, was sensible of the features of
this scene only as they served to bring Valancourt more immediately to
her fancy. “Ah!” said she, with a heavy sigh, as she threw herself into
a chair by the window, “how often have we sat together in this
spot—often have looked upon that landscape! Never, never more shall we
view it together—never—never more, perhaps, shall we look upon each
other!”

Her tears were suddenly stopped by terror—a voice spoke near her in the
pavilion; she shrieked—it spoke again, and she distinguished the
well-known tones of Valancourt. It was indeed Valancourt who supported
her in his arms! For some moments their emotion would not suffer either
to speak. “Emily,” said Valancourt at length, as he pressed her hand in
his. “Emily!” and he was again silent, but the accent, in which he had
pronounced her name, expressed all his tenderness and sorrow. “O my Emily!” he resumed, after a long pause, “I do then see you once
again, and hear again the sound of that voice! I have haunted this
place—these gardens, for many—many nights, with a faint, very faint
hope of seeing you. This was the only chance that remained to me, and
thank Heaven! it has at length succeeded—I am not condemned to absolute
despair!”

Emily said something, she scarcely knew what, expressive of her
unalterable affection, and endeavoured to calm the agitation of his
mind; but Valancourt could for some time only utter incoherent
expressions of his emotions; and, when he was somewhat more composed,
he said, “I came hither, soon after sunset, and have been watching in
the gardens, and in this pavilion ever since; for, though I had now
given up all hope of seeing you, I could not resolve to tear myself
from a place so near to you, and should probably have lingered about
the château till morning dawned. O how heavily the moments have passed,
yet with what various emotion have they been marked, as I sometimes
thought I heard footsteps, and fancied you were approaching, and then
again—perceived only a dead and dreary silence! But, when you opened
the door of the pavilion, and the darkness prevented my distinguishing
with certainty, whether it was my love—my heart beat so strongly with
hopes and fears, that I could not speak. The instant I heard the
plaintive accents of your voice, my doubts vanished, but not my fears,
till you spoke of me; then, losing the apprehension of alarming you in
the excess of my emotion, I could no longer be silent. O Emily! these
are moments, in which joy and grief struggle so powerfully for
pre-eminence, that the heart can scarcely support the contest!”

Emily’s heart acknowledged the truth of this assertion, but the joy she
felt on thus meeting Valancourt, at the very moment when she was
lamenting, that they must probably meet no more, soon melted into
grief, as reflection stole over her thoughts, and imagination prompted
visions of the future. She struggled to recover the calm dignity of
mind, which was necessary to support her through this last interview,
and which Valancourt found it utterly impossible to attain, for the
transports of his joy changed abruptly into those of suffering, and he
expressed in the most impassioned language his horror of this
separation, and his despair of their ever meeting again. Emily wept
silently as she listened to him, and then, trying to command her own
distress, and to sooth his, she suggested every circumstance that could
lead to hope. But the energy of his fears led him instantly to detect
the friendly fallacies, which she endeavoured to impose on herself and
him, and also to conjure up illusions too powerful for his reason. “You are going from me,” said he, “to a distant country, O how
distant!—to new society, new friends, new admirers, with people too,
who will try to make you forget me, and to promote new connections! How
can I know this, and not know, that you will never return for me—never
can be mine.” His voice was stifled by sighs. “You believe, then,” said Emily, “that the pangs I suffer proceed from
a trivial and temporary interest; you believe—”

“Suffer!” interrupted Valancourt, “suffer for me! O Emily—how sweet—how
bitter are those words; what comfort, what anguish do they give! I
ought not to doubt the steadiness of your affection, yet such is the
inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to suspicion,
however unreasonable; always requiring new assurances from the object
of its interest, and thus it is, that I always feel revived, as by a
new conviction, when your words tell me I am dear to you; and, wanting
these, I relapse into doubt, and too often into despondency.” Then
seeming to recollect himself, he exclaimed, “But what a wretch am I,
thus to torture you, and in these moments, too! I, who ought to support
and comfort you!”

This reflection overcame Valancourt with tenderness, but, relapsing
into despondency, he again felt only for himself, and lamented again
this cruel separation, in a voice and words so impassioned, that Emily
could no longer struggle to repress her own grief, or to sooth his. Valancourt, between these emotions of love and pity, lost the power,
and almost the wish, of repressing his agitation; and, in the intervals
of convulsive sobs, he, at one moment, kissed away her tears, then told
her cruelly, that possibly she might never again weep for him, and then
tried to speak more calmly, but only exclaimed, “O Emily—my heart will
break!—I cannot—cannot leave you! Now—I gaze upon that countenance, now
I hold you in my arms! a little while, and all this will appear a
dream. I shall look, and cannot see you; shall try to recollect your
features—and the impression will be fled from my imagination;—to hear
the tones of your voice, and even memory will be silent!—I cannot,
cannot leave you!