The information she
had just received excited, perhaps, more alarm than it could justify,
and raised once more the conflict of contrasted interests. She had
never liked Montoni. The fire and keenness of his eye, its proud
exultation, its bold fierceness, its sullen watchfulness, as occasion,
and even slight occasion, had called forth the latent soul, she had
often observed with emotion; while from the usual expression of his
countenance she had always shrunk. From such observations she was the
more inclined to believe, that it was this Montoni, of whom the Italian
had uttered his suspicious hints. The thought of being solely in his
power, in a foreign land, was terrifying to her, but it was not by
terror alone that she was urged to an immediate marriage with
Valancourt. The tenderest love had already pleaded his cause, but had
been unable to overcome her opinion, as to her duty, her disinterested
considerations for Valancourt, and the delicacy, which made her revolt
from a clandestine union. It was not to be expected, that a vague
terror would be more powerful, than the united influence of love and
grief. But it recalled all their energy, and rendered a second conquest
necessary. With Valancourt, whose imagination was now awake to the suggestion of
every passion; whose apprehensions for Emily had acquired strength by
the mere mention of them, and became every instant more powerful, as
his mind brooded over them—with Valancourt no second conquest was
attainable. He thought he saw in the clearest light, and love assisted
the fear, that this journey to Italy would involve Emily in misery; he
determined, therefore, to persevere in opposing it, and in conjuring
her to bestow upon him the title of her lawful protector. “Emily!” said he, with solemn earnestness, “this is no time for
scrupulous distinctions, for weighing the dubious and comparatively
trifling circumstances, that may affect our future comfort. I now see,
much more clearly than before, the train of serious dangers you are
going to encounter with a man of Montoni’s character. Those dark hints
of the Italian spoke much, but not more than the idea I have of
Montoni’s disposition, as exhibited even in his countenance. I think I
see at this moment all that could have been hinted, written there. He
is the Italian, whom I fear, and I conjure you for your own sake, as
well as for mine, to prevent the evils I shudder to foresee. O Emily! let my tenderness, my arms withhold you from them—give me the right to
defend you!”

Emily only sighed, while Valancourt proceeded to remonstrate and to
entreat with all the energy that love and apprehension could inspire. But, as his imagination magnified to her the possible evils she was
going to meet, the mists of her own fancy began to dissipate, and
allowed her to distinguish the exaggerated images, which imposed on his
reason. She considered, that there was no proof of Montoni being the
person, whom the stranger had meant; that, even if he was so, the
Italian had noticed his character and broken fortunes merely from
report; and that, though the countenance of Montoni seemed to give
probability to a part of the rumour, it was not by such circumstances
that an implicit belief of it could be justified. These considerations
would probably not have arisen so distinctly to her mind, at this time,
had not the terrors of Valancourt presented to her such obvious
exaggerations of her danger, as incited her to distrust the fallacies
of passion. But, while she endeavoured in the gentlest manner to
convince him of his error, she plunged him into a new one. His voice
and countenance changed to an expression of dark despair. “Emily!” said
he, “this, this moment is the bitterest that is yet come to me. You do
not—cannot love me!—It would be impossible for you to reason thus
coolly, thus deliberately, if you did. I, _I_ am torn with anguish at
the prospect of our separation, and of the evils that may await you in
consequence of it; I would encounter any hazards to prevent it—to save
you. No! Emily, no!—you cannot love me.”

“We have now little time to waste in exclamation, or assertion,” said
Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion: “if you are yet to learn
how dear you are, and ever must be, to my heart, no assurances of mine
can give you conviction.”

The last words faltered on her lips, and her tears flowed fast. These
words and tears brought, once more, and with instantaneous force,
conviction of her love to Valancourt. He could only exclaim, “Emily! Emily!” and weep over the hand he pressed to his lips; but she, after
some moments, again roused herself from the indulgence of sorrow, and
said, “I must leave you; it is late, and my absence from the château
may be discovered. Think of me—love me—when I am far away; the belief
of this will be my comfort!”

“Think of you!—love you!” exclaimed Valancourt. “Try to moderate these transports,” said Emily, “for my sake, try.”

“For your sake!”

“Yes, for my sake,” replied Emily, in a tremulous voice, “I cannot
leave you thus!”

“Then do not leave me!” said Valancourt, with quickness. “Why should we
part, or part for longer than till tomorrow?”

“I am, indeed I am, unequal to these moments,” replied Emily, “you tear
my heart, but I never can consent to this hasty, imprudent proposal!”

“If we could command our time, my Emily, it should not be thus hasty;
we must submit to circumstances.”

“We must indeed! I have already told you all my heart—my spirits are
gone. You allowed the force of my objections, till your tenderness
called up vague terrors, which have given us both unnecessary anguish. Spare me! do not oblige me to repeat the reasons I have already urged.”

“Spare you!” cried Valancourt, “I am a wretch—a very wretch, that have
felt only for myself!—I! who ought to have shown the fortitude of a
man, who ought to have supported you, I have increased your sufferings
by the conduct of a child! Forgive me, Emily! think of the distraction
of my mind now that I am about to part with all that is dear to me—and
forgive me! When you are gone, I shall recollect with bitter remorse
what I have made you suffer, and shall wish in vain that I could see
you, if only for a moment, that I might sooth your grief.”

Tears again interrupted his voice, and Emily wept with him. “I will
show myself more worthy of your love,” said Valancourt, at length; “I
will not prolong these moments. My Emily—my own Emily! never forget me! God knows when we shall meet again! I resign you to his care.—O God!—O
God!—protect and bless her!”

He pressed her hand to his heart. Emily sunk almost lifeless on his
bosom, and neither wept, nor spoke. Valancourt, now commanding his own
distress, tried to comfort and reassure her, but she appeared totally
unaffected by what he said, and a sigh, which she uttered, now and
then, was all that proved she had not fainted.