Let
me, however, without offending the delicacy of your sorrow, venture to
declare the admiration I must always feel of your goodness—O! that at
some future period I might be permitted to call it love!”

Emily’s emotion would not suffer her to reply; and Valancourt, who now
ventured to look up, observing her countenance change, expected to see
her faint, and made an involuntary effort to support her, which
recalled Emily to a sense of her situation, and to an exertion of her
spirits. Valancourt did not appear to notice her indisposition, but,
when he spoke again, his voice told the tenderest love. “I will not
presume,” he added, “to intrude this subject longer upon your attention
at this time, but I may, perhaps, be permitted to mention, that these
parting moments would lose much of their bitterness if I might be
allowed to hope the declaration I have made would not exclude me from
your presence in future.”

Emily made another effort to overcome the confusion of her thoughts,
and to speak. She feared to trust the preference her heart acknowledged
towards Valancourt, and to give him any encouragement for hope, on so
short an acquaintance. For though in this narrow period she had
observed much that was admirable in his taste and disposition, and
though these observations had been sanctioned by the opinion of her
father, they were not sufficient testimonies of his general worth to
determine her upon a subject so infinitely important to her future
happiness as that, which now solicited her attention. Yet, though the
thought of dismissing Valancourt was so very painful to her, that she
could scarcely endure to pause upon it, the consciousness of this made
her fear the partiality of her judgment, and hesitate still more to
encourage that suit, for which her own heart too tenderly pleaded. The
family of Valancourt, if not his circumstances, had been known to her
father, and known to be unexceptionable. Of his circumstances,
Valancourt himself hinted as far as delicacy would permit, when he said
he had at present little else to offer but a heart, that adored her. He
had solicited only for a distant hope, and she could not resolve to
forbid, though she scarcely dared to permit it; at length, she acquired
courage to say, that she must think herself honoured by the good
opinion of any person, whom her father had esteemed. “And was I, then, thought worthy of his esteem?” said Valancourt, in a
voice trembling with anxiety; then checking himself, he added, “But
pardon the question; I scarcely know what I say. If I might dare to
hope, that you think me not unworthy such honour, and might be
permitted sometimes to enquire after your health, I should now leave
you with comparative tranquillity.”

Emily, after a moment’s silence, said, “I will be ingenuous with you,
for I know you will understand, and allow for my situation; you will
consider it as a proof of my—my esteem that I am so. Though I live here
in what was my father’s house, I live here alone. I have, alas! no
longer a parent—a parent, whose presence might sanction your visits. It
is unnecessary for me to point out the impropriety of my receiving
them.”

“Nor will I affect to be insensible of this,” replied Valancourt,
adding mournfully—“but what is to console me for my candour? I distress
you, and would now leave the subject, if I might carry with me a hope
of being some time permitted to renew it, of being allowed to make
myself known to your family.”

Emily was again confused, and again hesitated what to reply; she felt
most acutely the difficulty—the forlornness of her situation, which did
not allow her a single relative, or friend, to whom she could turn for
even a look, that might support and guide her in the present
embarrassing circumstances. Madame Cheron, who was her only relative,
and ought to have been this friend, was either occupied by her own
amusements, or so resentful of the reluctance her niece had shown to
quit La Vallée, that she seemed totally to have abandoned her. “Ah! I see,” said Valancourt, after a long pause, during which Emily
had begun, and left unfinished two or three sentences, “I see that I
have nothing to hope; my fears were too just, you think me unworthy of
your esteem. That fatal journey! which I considered as the happiest
period of my life—those delightful days were to embitter all my future
ones. How often I have looked back to them with hope and fear—yet never
till this moment could I prevail with myself to regret their enchanting
influence.”

His voice faltered, and he abruptly quitted his seat and walked on the
terrace. There was an expression of despair on his countenance, that
affected Emily. The pleadings of her heart overcame, in some degree,
her extreme timidity, and, when he resumed his seat, she said, in an
accent that betrayed her tenderness, “You do both yourself and me
injustice when you say I think you unworthy of my esteem; I will
acknowledge that you have long possessed it, and—and—”

Valancourt waited impatiently for the conclusion of the sentence, but
the words died on her lips. Her eyes, however, reflected all the
emotions of her heart. Valancourt passed, in an instant, from the
impatience of despair, to that of joy and tenderness. “O Emily!” he
exclaimed, “my own Emily—teach me to sustain this moment! Let me seal
it as the most sacred of my life!”

He pressed her hand to his lips, it was cold and trembling; and,
raising her eyes, he saw the paleness of her countenance. Tears came to
her relief, and Valancourt watched in anxious silence over her. In a
few moments, she recovered herself, and smiling faintly through her
tears, said, “Can you excuse this weakness? My spirits have not yet, I
believe, recovered from the shock they lately received.”

“I cannot excuse myself,” said Valancourt, “but I will forbear to renew
the subject, which may have contributed to agitate them, now that I can
leave you with the sweet certainty of possessing your esteem.”

Then, forgetting his resolution, he again spoke of himself. “You know
not,” said he, “the many anxious hours I have passed near you lately,
when you believed me, if indeed you honoured me with a thought, far
away. I have wandered, near the château, in the still hours of the
night, when no eye could observe me. It was delightful to know I was so
near you, and there was something particularly soothing in the thought,
that I watched round your habitation, while you slept. These grounds
are not entirely new to me. Once I ventured within the fence, and spent
one of the happiest, and yet most melancholy hours of my life in
walking under what I believed to be your window.”

Emily enquired how long Valancourt had been in the neighbourhood. “Several days,” he replied. “It was my design to avail myself of the
permission M. St. Aubert had given me. I scarcely know how to account
for it; but, though I anxiously wished to do this, my resolution always
failed, when the moment approached, and I constantly deferred my visit.