And overcome us like a summer’s cloud,
Without our special wonder?
MACBETH
On the next morning, Emily ordered a fire to be lighted in the stove of the chamber1, where St. Aubert used to sleep; and, as soon as she had breakfasted, went thither2 to burn the papers. Having fastened the door to prevent interruption, she opened the closet where they were concealed3, as she entered which, she felt an emotion of unusual awe4, and stood for some moments surveying it, trembling, and almost afraid to remove the board. There was a great chair in one corner of the closet, and, opposite to it, stood the table, at which she had seen her father sit, on the evening that preceded his departure, looking over, with so much emotion, what she believed to be these very papers.
The solitary5 life, which Emily had led of late, and the melancholy6 subjects, on which she had suffered her thoughts to dwell, had rendered her at times sensible to the ‘thick-coming fancies’ of a mind greatly enervated7. It was lamentable8, that her excellent understanding should have yielded, even for a moment, to the reveries of superstition10, or rather to those starts of imagination, which deceive the senses into what can be called nothing less than momentary11 madness. Instances of this temporary failure of mind had more than once occurred since her return home; particularly when, wandering through this lonely mansion12 in the evening twilight13, she had been alarmed by appearances, which would have been unseen in her more cheerful days. To this infirm state of her nerves may be attributed what she imagined, when, her eyes glancing a second time on the arm-chair, which stood in an obscure part of the closet, the countenance14 of her dead father appeared there. Emily stood fixed15 for a moment to the floor, after which she left the closet. Her spirits, however, soon returned; she reproached herself with the weakness of thus suffering interruption in an act of serious importance, and again opened the door. By the directions which St. Aubert had given her, she readily found the board he had described in an opposite corner of the closet, near the window; she distinguished16 also the line he had mentioned, and, pressing it as he had bade her, it slid down, and disclosed the bundle of papers, together with some scattered17 ones, and the purse of louis. With a trembling hand she removed them, replaced the board, paused a moment, and was rising from the floor, when, on looking up, there appeared to her alarmed fancy the same countenance in the chair. The illusion, another instance of the unhappy effect which solitude18 and grief had gradually produced upon her mind, subdued19 her spirits; she rushed forward into the chamber, and sunk almost senseless into a chair. Returning reason soon overcame the dreadful, but pitiable attack of imagination, and she turned to the papers, though still with so little recollection, that her eyes involuntarily settled on the writing of some loose sheets, which lay open; and she was unconscious, that she was transgressing21 her father’s strict injunction, till a sentence of dreadful import awakened22 her attention and her memory together. She hastily put the papers from her; but the words, which had roused equally her curiosity and terror, she could not dismiss from her thoughts. So powerfully had they affected23 her, that she even could not resolve to destroy the papers immediately; and the more she dwelt on the circumstance, the more it inflamed24 her imagination. Urged by the most forcible, and apparently25 the most necessary, curiosity to enquire26 farther, concerning the terrible and mysterious subject, to which she had seen an allusion27, she began to lament9 her promise to destroy the papers. For a moment, she even doubted, whether it could justly be obeyed, in contradiction to such reasons as there appeared to be for further information. But the delusion28 was momentary.
‘I have given a solemn promise,’ said she, ‘to observe a solemn injunction, and it is not my business to argue, but to obey. Let me hasten to remove the temptation, that would destroy my innocence29, and embitter30 my life with the consciousness of irremediable guilt31, while I have strength to reject it.’
Thus re-animated with a sense of her duty, she completed the triumph of her integrity over temptation, more forcible than any she had ever known, and consigned32 the papers to the flames. Her eyes watched them as they slowly consumed, she shuddered33 at the recollection of the sentence she had just seen, and at the certainty, that the only opportunity of explaining it was then passing away for ever.
It was long after this, that she recollected34 the purse; and as she was depositing it, unopened, in a cabinet, perceiving that it contained something of a size larger than coin, she examined it. ‘His hand deposited them here,’ said she, as she kissed some pieces of the coin, and wetted them with her tears, ‘his hand — which is now dust!’ At the bottom of the purse was a small packet, having taken out which, and unfolded paper after paper, she found to be an ivory case, containing the miniature of a — lady! She started —‘The same,’ said she, ‘my father wept over!’ On examining the countenance she could recollect20 no person that it resembled. It was of uncommon35 beauty, and was characterized by an expression of sweetness, shaded with sorrow, and tempered by resignation.
St. Aubert had given no directions concerning this picture, nor had even named it; she, therefore, thought herself justified36 in preserving it. More than once remembering his manner, when he had spoken of the Marchioness of Villeroi, she felt inclined to believe that this was her resemblance; yet there appeared no reason why he should have preserved a picture of that lady, or, having preserved it, why he should lament over it in a manner so striking and affecting as she had witnessed on the night preceding his departure.
Emily still gazed on the countenance, examining its features, but she knew not where to detect the charm that captivated her attention, and inspired sentiments of such love and pity. Dark brown hair played carelessly along the open forehead; the nose was rather inclined to aquiline38; the lips spoke37 in a smile, but it was a melancholy one; the eyes were blue, and were directed upwards39 with an expression of peculiar40 meekness41, while the soft cloud of the brow spoke of the fine sensibility of the temper.
Emily was roused from the musing42 mood into which the picture had thrown her, by the closing of the garden gate; and, on turning her eyes to the window, she saw Valancourt coming towards the chateau43. Her spirits agitated44 by the subjects that had lately occupied her mind, she felt unprepared to see him, and remained a few moments in the chamber to recover herself.
When she met him in the parlour, she was struck with the change that appeared in his air and countenance since they had parted in Rousillon, which twilight and the distress46 she suffered on the preceding evening had prevented her from observing. But dejection and languor47 disappeared, for a moment, in the smile that now enlightened his countenance, on perceiving her. ‘You see,’ said he, ‘I have availed myself of the permission with which you honoured me — of bidding YOU farewell, whom I had the happiness of meeting only yesterday.’
Emily smiled faintly, and, anxious to say something, asked if he had been long in Gascony. ‘A few days only,’ replied Valancourt, while a blush passed over his cheek. ‘I engaged in a long ramble48 after I had the misfortune of parting with the friends who had made my wanderings among the Pyrenees so delightful49.’
A tear came to Emily’s eye, as Valancourt said this, which he observed; and, anxious to draw off her attention from the remembrance that had occasioned it, as well as shocked at his own thoughtlessness, he began to speak on other subjects, expressing his admiration50 of the chateau, and its prospects51. Emily, who felt somewhat embarrassed how to support a conversation, was glad of such an opportunity to continue it on indifferent topics. They walked down to the terrace, where Valancourt was charmed with the river scenery, and the views over the opposite shores of Guienne.
As he leaned on the wall of the terrace, watching the rapid current of the Garonne, ‘I was a few weeks ago,’ said he, ‘at the source of this noble river; I had not then the happiness of knowing you, or I should have regretted your absence — it was a scene so exactly suited to your taste. It rises in a part of the Pyrenees, still wilder and more sublime52, I think, than any we passed in the way to Rousillon.’ He then described its fall among the precipices53 of the mountains, where its waters, augmented54 by the streams that descend55 from the snowy summits around, rush into the Vallee d’Aran, between whose romantic heights it foams56 along, pursuing its way to the north west till it emerges upon the plains of Languedoc. Then, washing the walls of Tholouse, and turning again to the north west, it assumes a milder character, as it fertilizes57 the pastures of Gascony and Guienne, in its progress to the Bay of Biscay.
Emily and Valancourt talked of the scenes they had passed among the Pyrenean Alps; as he spoke of which there was often a tremulous tenderness in his voice, and sometimes he expatiated58 on them with all the fire of genius, sometimes would appear scarcely conscious of the topic, though he continued to speak. This subject recalled forcibly to Emily the idea of her father, whose image appeared in every landscape, which Valancourt particularized, whose remarks dwelt upon her memory, and whose enthusiasm still glowed in her heart. Her silence, at length, reminded Valancourt how nearly his conversation approached to the occasion of her grief, and he changed the subject, though for one scarcely less affecting to Emily. When he admired the grandeur59 of the plane-tree, that spread its wide branches over the terrace, and under whose shade they now sat, she remembered how often she had sat thus with St. Aubert, and heard him express the same admiration.
‘This was a favourite tree with my dear father,’ said she; ‘he used to love to sit under its foliage60 with his family about him, in the fine evenings of summer.’
Valancourt understood her feelings, and was silent; had she raised her eyes from the ground she would have seen tears in his. He rose, and leaned on the wall of the terrace, from which, in a few moments, he returned to his seat, then rose again, and appeared to be greatly agitated; while Emily found her spirits so much depressed61, that several of her attempts to renew the conversation were ineffectual. Valancourt again sat down, but was still silent, and trembled. At length he said, with a hesitating voice, ‘This lovely scene!— I am going to leave — to leave you — perhaps for ever! These moments may never return; I cannot resolve to neglect, though I scarcely dare to avail myself of them. Let me, however, without offending the delicacy62 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 exertion63 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 intrude65 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 disposition64, and though these observations had been sanctioned by the opinion of her father, they were not sufficient testimonies66 of his general worth to determine her upon a subject so infinitely67 important to her future happiness as that, which now solicited68 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 judgment69, 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 an 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 esteemed70.
‘And was I, then, thought worthy72 of his esteem71?’ 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 tranquillity73.’
Emily, after a moment’s silence, said, ‘I will be ingenuous74 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, alas75! 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 reluctance77 her niece had shewn to quit La Vallee, 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 enchanting78 influence.’
His voice faltered79, and he abruptly80 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 injustice81 when you say I think you unworthy of my esteem; I will acknowledge that you have long possessed82 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 impatience83 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 agitate45 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 chateau, 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 soothing84 in the thought, that I watched round your habitation, while you slept. These grounds are not entirely85 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 enquired86 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 deferred88 my visit. I lodged89 in a village at some distance, and wandered with my dogs, among the scenes of this charming country, wishing continually to meet you, yet not daring to visit you.’
Having thus continued to converse90, without perceiving the flight of time, Valancourt, at length, seemed to recollect himself. ‘I must go,’ said he mournfully, ‘but it is with the hope of seeing you again, of being permitted to pay my respects to your family; let me hear this hope confirmed by your voice.’ ‘My family will be happy to see any friend of my dear father,’ said Emily. Valancourt kissed her hand, and still lingered, unable to depart, while Emily sat silently, with her eyes bent91 on the ground; and Valancourt, as he gazed on her, considered that it would soon be impossible for him to recall, even to his memory, the exact resemblance of the beautiful countenance he then beheld92; at this moment an hasty footstep approached from behind the plane-tree, and, turning her eyes, Emily saw Madame Cheron. She felt a blush steal upon her cheek, and her frame trembled with the emotion of her mind; but she instantly rose to meet her visitor. ‘So, niece!’ said Madame Cheron, casting a look of surprise and enquiry on Valancourt, ‘so niece, how do you do? But I need not ask, your looks tell me you have already recovered your loss.’
‘My looks do me injustice then, Madame, my loss I know can never be recovered.’
‘Well — well! I will not argue with you; I see you have exactly your father’s disposition; and let me tell you it would have been much happier for him, poor man! if it had been a different one.’
A look of dignified93 displeasure, with which Emily regarded Madame Cheron, while she spoke, would have touched almost any other heart; she made no other reply, but introduced Valancourt, who could scarcely stifle94 the resentment95 he felt, and whose bow Madame Cheron returned with a slight curtsy, and a look of supercilious96 examination. After a few moments he took leave of Emily, in a manner, that hastily expressed his pain both at his own departure, and at leaving her to the society of Madame Cheron.
‘Who is that young man?’ said her aunt, in an accent which equally implied inquisitiveness97 and censure98. ‘Some idle admirer of yours I suppose; but I believed niece you had a greater sense of propriety76, than to have received the visits of any young man in your present unfriended situation. Let me tell you the world will observe those things, and it will talk, aye and very freely too.’
Emily, extremely shocked at this coarse speech, attempted to interrupt it; but Madame Cheron would proceed, with all the self- importance of a person, to whom power is new.
‘It is very necessary you should be under the eye of some person more able to guide you than yourself. I, indeed, have not much leisure for such a task; however, since your poor father made it his last request, that I should overlook your conduct — I must even take you under my care. But this let me tell you niece, that, unless you will determine to be very conformable to my direction, I shall not trouble myself longer about you.’
Emily made no attempt to interrupt Madame Cheron a second time, grief and the pride of conscious innocence kept her silent, till her aunt said, ‘I am now come to take you with me to Tholouse; I am sorry to find, that your poor father died, after all, in such indifferent circumstances; however, I shall take you home with me. Ah! poor man, he was always more generous than provident100, or he would not have left his daughter dependent on his relations.’
‘Nor has he done so, I hope, madam,’ said Emily calmly, ‘nor did his pecuniary101 misfortunes arise from that noble generosity102, which always distinguished him. The affairs of M. de Motteville may, I trust, yet be settled without deeply injuring his creditors103, and in the meantime I should be very happy to remain at La Vallee.’
‘No doubt you would,’ replied Madame Cheron, with a smile of irony104, ‘and I shall no doubt consent to this, since I see how necessary tranquillity and retirement105 are to restore your spirits. I did not think you capable of so much duplicity, niece; when you pleaded this excuse for remaining here, I foolishly believed it to be a just one, nor expected to have found with you so agreeable a companion as this M. La Val —, I forget his name.’
Emily could no longer endure these cruel indignities106. ‘It was a just one, madam,’ said she; ‘and now, indeed, I feel more than ever the value of the retirement I then solicited; and, if the purport107 of your visit is only to add insult to the sorrows of your brother’s child, she could well have spared it.’
‘I see that I have undertaken a very troublesome task,’ said Madame Cheron, colouring highly. ‘I am sure, madam,’ said Emily mildly, and endeavouring to restrain her tears, ‘I am sure my father did not mean it should be such. I have the happiness to reflect, that my conduct under his eye was such as he often delighted to approve. It would be very painful to me to disobey the sister of such a parent, and, if you believe the task will really be so troublesome, I must lament, that it is yours.’
‘Well! niece, fine speaking signifies little. I am willing, in consideration of my poor brother, to overlook the impropriety of your late conduct, and to try what your future will be.’
Emily interrupted her, to beg she would explain what was the impropriety she alluded108 to.
‘What impropriety! why that of receiving the visits of a lover unknown to your family,’ replied Madame Cheron, not considering the impropriety of which she had herself been guilty, in exposing her niece to the possibility of conduct so erroneous.
A faint blush passed over Emily’s countenance; pride and anxiety struggled in her breast; and, till she recollected, that appearances did, in some degree, justify109 her aunt’s suspicions, she could not resolve to humble110 herself so far as to enter into the defence of a conduct, which had been so innocent and undesigning on her part. She mentioned the manner of Valancourt’s introduction to her father; the circumstances of his receiving the pistol-shot, and of their afterwards travelling together; with the accidental way, in which she had met him, on the preceding evening. She owned he had declared a partiality for her, and that he had asked permission to address her family.
‘And who is this young adventurer, pray?’ said Madame Cheron, ‘and what are his pretensions111?’ ‘These he must himself explain, madam,’ replied Emily. ‘Of his family my father was not ignorant, and I believe it is unexceptionable.’ She then proceeded to mention what she knew concerning it.
‘Oh, then, this it seems is a younger brother,’ exclaimed her aunt, ‘and of course a beggar. A very fine tale indeed! And so my brother took a fancy to this young man after only a few days acquaintance!— but that was so like him! In his youth he was always taking these likes and dislikes, when no other person saw any reason for them at all; nay112, indeed, I have often thought the people he disapproved113 were much more agreeable than those he admired;— but there is no accounting114 for tastes. He was always so much influenced by people’s countenances115; now I, for my part, have no notion of this, it is all ridiculous enthusiasm. What has a man’s face to do with his character? Can a man of good character help having a disagreeable face?’— which last sentence Madame Cheron delivered with the decisive air of a person who congratulates herself on having made a grand discovery, and believes the question to be unanswerably settled.
Emily, desirous of concluding the conversation, enquired if her aunt would accept some refreshment116, and Madame Cheron accompanied her to the chateau, but without desisting from a topic, which she discussed with so much complacency to herself, and severity to her niece.
‘I am sorry to perceive, niece,’ said she, in allusion to somewhat that Emily had said, concerning physiognomy, ‘that you have a great many of your father’s prejudices, and among them those sudden predilections117 for people from their looks. I can perceive, that you imagine yourself to be violently in love with this young adventurer, after an acquaintance of only a few days. There was something, too, so charmingly romantic in the manner of your meeting!’
Emily checked the tears, that trembled in her eyes, while she said, ‘When my conduct shall deserve this severity, madam, you will do well to exercise it; till then justice, if not tenderness, should surely restrain it. I have never willingly offended you; now I have lost my parents, you are the only person to whom I can look for kindness. Let me not lament more than ever the loss of such parents.’ The last words were almost stifled118 by her emotions, and she burst into tears. Remembering the delicacy and the tenderness of St. Aubert, the happy, happy days she had passed in these scenes, and contrasting them with the coarse and unfeeling behaviour of Madame Cheron, and from the future hours of mortification119 she must submit to in her presence — a degree of grief seized her, that almost reached despair. Madame Cheron, more offended by the reproof120 which Emily’s words conveyed, than touched by the sorrow they expressed, said nothing, that might soften121 her grief; but, notwithstanding an apparent reluctance to receive her niece, she desired her company. The love of sway was her ruling passion, and she knew it would be highly gratified by taking into her house a young orphan122, who had no appeal from her decisions, and on whom she could exercise without controul the capricious humour of the moment.
On entering the chateau, Madame Cheron expressed a desire, that she would put up what she thought necessary to take to Tholouse, as she meant to set off immediately. Emily now tried to persuade her to defer87 the journey, at least till the next day, and, at length, with much difficulty, prevailed.
The day passed in the exercise of petty tyranny on the part of Madame Cheron, and in mournful regret and melancholy anticipation123 on that of Emily, who, when her aunt retired124 to her apartment for the night, went to take leave of every other room in this her dear native home, which she was now quitting for she knew not how long, and for a world, to which she was wholly a stranger. She could not conquer a presentiment125, which frequently occurred to her, this night — that she should never more return to La Vallee. Having passed a considerable time in what had been her father’s study, having selected some of his favourite authors, to put up with her clothes, and shed many tears, as she wiped the dust from their covers, she seated herself in his chair before the reading desk, and sat lost in melancholy reflection, till Theresa opened the door to examine, as was her custom before she went to bed, if was all safe. She started, on observing her young lady, who bade her come in, and then gave her some directions for keeping the chateau in readiness for her reception at all times.
‘Alas-a-day! that you should leave it!’ said Theresa, ‘I think you would be happier here than where you are going, if one may judge.’ Emily made no reply to this remark; the sorrow Theresa proceeded to express at her departure affected her, but she found some comfort in the simple affection of this poor old servant, to whom she gave such directions as might best conduce to her comfort during her own absence.
Having dismissed Theresa to bed, Emily wandered through every lonely apartment of the chateau, lingering long in what had been her father’s bed-room, indulging melancholy, yet not unpleasing, emotions, and, having often returned within the door to take another look at it, she withdrew to her own chamber. From her window she gazed upon the garden below, shewn faintly by the moon, rising over the tops of the palm-trees, and, at length, the calm beauty of the night increased a desire of indulging the mournful sweetness of bidding farewel to the beloved shades of her childhood, till she was tempted99 to descend. Throwing over her the light veil, in which she usually walked, she silently passed into the garden, and, hastening towards the distant groves126, was glad to breathe once more the air of liberty, and to sigh unobserved. The deep repose127 of the scene, the rich scents128, that floated on the breeze, the grandeur of the wide horizon and of the clear blue arch, soothed129 and gradually elevated her mind to that sublime complacency, which renders the vexations of this world so insignificant130 and mean in our eyes, that we wonder they have had power for a moment to disturb us. Emily forgot Madame Cheron and all the circumstances of her conduct, while her thoughts ascended131 to the contemplation of those unnumbered worlds, that lie scattered in the depths of aether, thousands of them hid from human eyes, and almost beyond the flight of human fancy. As her imagination soared through the regions of space, and aspired132 to that Great First Cause, which pervades133 and governs all being, the idea of her father scarcely ever left her; but it was a pleasing idea, since she resigned him to God in the full confidence of a pure and holy faith. She pursued her way through the groves to the terrace, often pausing as memory awakened the pang134 of affection, and as reason anticipated the exile, into which she was going.
And now the moon was high over the woods, touching135 their summits with yellow light, and darting136 between the foliage long level beams; while on the rapid Garonne below the trembling radiance was faintly obscured by the lightest vapour. Emily long watched the playing lustre137, listened to the soothing murmur138 of the current, and the yet lighter139 sounds of the air, as it stirred, at intervals140, the lofty palm-trees. ‘How delightful is the sweet breath of these groves,’ said she. ‘This lovely scene!— how often shall I remember and regret it, when I am far away. Alas! what events may occur before I see it again! O, peaceful, happy shades!— scenes of my infant delights, of parental141 tenderness now lost for ever!— why must I leave ye!— In your retreats I should still find safety and repose. Sweet hours of my childhood — I am now to leave even your last memorials! No objects, that would revive your impressions, will remain for me!’
Then drying her tears and looking up, her thoughts rose again to the sublime subject she had contemplated142; the same divine complacency stole over her heart, and, hushing its throbs143, inspired hope and confidence and resignation to the will of the Deity144, whose works filled her mind with adoration145.
Emily gazed long on the plane-tree, and then seated herself, for the last time, on the bench under its shade, where she had so often sat with her parents, and where, only a few hours before, she had conversed146 with Valancourt, at the remembrance of whom, thus revived, a mingled147 sensation of esteem, tenderness and anxiety rose in her breast. With this remembrance occurred a recollection of his late confession148 — that he had often wandered near her habitation in the night, having even passed the boundary of the garden, and it immediately occurred to her, that he might be at this moment in the grounds. The fear of meeting him, particularly after the declaration he had made, and of incurring149 a censure, which her aunt might so reasonably bestow150, if it was known, that she was met by her lover, at this hour, made her instantly leave her beloved plane-tree, and walk towards the chateau. She cast an anxious eye around, and often stopped for a moment to examine the shadowy scene before she ventured to proceed, but she passed on without perceiving any person, till, having reached a clump151 of almond trees, not far from the house, she rested to take a retrospect152 of the garden, and to sigh forth153 another adieu. As her eyes wandered over the landscape she thought she perceived a person emerge from the groves, and pass slowly along a moon-light alley154 that led between them; but the distance, and the imperfect light would not suffer her to judge with any degree of certainty whether this was fancy or reality. She continued to gaze for some time on the spot, till on the dead stillness of the air she heard a sudden sound, and in the next instant fancied she distinguished footsteps near her. Wasting not another moment in conjecture155, she hurried to the chateau, and, having reached it, retired to her chamber, where, as she closed her window she looked upon the garden, and then again thought she distinguished a figure, gliding156 between the almond trees she had just left. She immediately withdrew from the casement157, and, though much agitated, sought in sleep the refreshment of a short oblivion.
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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3
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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4
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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5
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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6
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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enervated
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| adj.衰弱的，无力的v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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10
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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12
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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15
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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16
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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18
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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19
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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20
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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21
transgressing
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| v.超越( transgress的现在分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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22
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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23
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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24
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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26
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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27
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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28
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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29
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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30
embitter
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| v.使苦；激怒 | |
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31
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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32
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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33
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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34
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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36
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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37
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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38
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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39
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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40
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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41
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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42
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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43
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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44
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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45
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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46
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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47
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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48
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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49
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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50
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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51
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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52
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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53
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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54
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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55
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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56
foams
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| n.泡沫，泡沫材料( foam的名词复数 ) | |
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57
fertilizes
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| n.施肥( fertilize的名词复数 )v.施肥( fertilize的第三人称单数 ) | |
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58
expatiated
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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60
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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61
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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62
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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63
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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64
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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65
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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66
testimonies
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| （法庭上证人的）证词( testimony的名词复数 )； 证明，证据 | |
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67
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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68
solicited
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| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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69
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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70
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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71
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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72
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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73
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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74
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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75
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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76
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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77
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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78
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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79
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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80
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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81
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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82
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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83
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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84
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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85
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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86
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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87
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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88
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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89
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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90
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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91
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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92
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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93
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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94
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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95
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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96
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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97
inquisitiveness
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| 好奇，求知欲 | |
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98
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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99
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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100
provident
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| adj.为将来做准备的，有先见之明的 | |
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101
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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102
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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103
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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104
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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105
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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106
indignities
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| n.侮辱，轻蔑( indignity的名词复数 ) | |
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107
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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108
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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110
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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111
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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112
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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113
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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115
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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116
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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117
predilections
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| n.偏爱，偏好，嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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118
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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119
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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120
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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121
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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122
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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123
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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124
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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125
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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126
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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127
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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128
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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129
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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130
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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131
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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134
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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135
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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136
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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139
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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140
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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142
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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143
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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144
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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145
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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146
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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148
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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149
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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150
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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151
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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152
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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156
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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