As when a wave, that from a cloud impends,
And, swell'd with tempests, on the ship descends,
White are the decks with foam; the winds aloud,
Howl o'er the masts, and sing through ev'ry shroud:
Pale, trembling, tir'd, the sailors freeze with fears,
And instant death on ev'ry wave appears.
POPE'S HOMER
The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, who was left much alone, became impatient
for the company of her new friend, whom she wished to observe sharing in
the delight she received from the beautiful scenery around. She had now
no person, to whom she could express her admiration and communicate
her pleasures, no eye, that sparkled to her smile, or countenance, that
reflected her happiness; and she became spiritless and pensive. The
Count, observing her dissatisfaction, readily yielded to her entreaties,
and reminded Emily of her promised visit; but the silence of Valancourt,
which was now prolonged far beyond the period, when a letter might
have arrived from Estuviere, oppressed Emily with severe anxiety, and,
rendering her averse to society, she would willingly have deferred her
acceptance of this invitation, till her spirits should be relieved.
The Count and his family, however, pressed to see her; and, as the
circumstances, that prompted her wish for solitude, could not be
explained, there was an appearance of caprice in her refusal, which she
could not persevere in, without offending the friends, whose esteem
she valued.
At length, therefore, she returned upon a second visit
to Chateau-le-Blanc. Here the friendly manner of Count De Villefort
encouraged Emily to mention to him her situation, respecting the estates
of her late aunt, and to consult him on the means of recovering them. He
had little doubt, that the law would decide in her favour, and, advising
her to apply to it, offered first to write to an advocate at Avignon,
on whose opinion he thought he could rely. His kindness was gratefully
accepted by Emily, who, soothed by the courtesy she daily experienced,
would have been once more happy, could she have been assured of
Valancourt's welfare and unaltered affection. She had now been above a
week at the chateau, without receiving intelligence of him, and, though
she knew, that, if he was absent from his brother's residence, it was
scarcely probable her letter had yet reached him, she could not forbear
to admit doubts and fears, that destroyed her peace.
Again she would consider of all, that might have happened in the long period, since her
first seclusion at Udolpho, and her mind was sometimes so overwhelmed
with an apprehension, that Valancourt was no more, or that he lived
no longer for her, that the company even of Blanche became intolerably
oppressive, and she would sit alone in her apartment for hours together,
when the engagements of the family allowed her to do so, without
incivility. In one of these solitary hours, she unlocked a little box, which
contained some letters of Valancourt, with some drawings she had
sketched, during her stay in Tuscany, the latter of which were no
longer interesting to her; but, in the letters, she now, with melancholy
indulgence, meant to retrace the tenderness, that had so often soothed
her, and rendered her, for a moment, insensible of the distance, which
separated her from the writer. But their effect was now changed; the
affection they expressed appealed so forcibly to her heart, when she
considered that it had, perhaps, yielded to the powers of time and
absence, and even the view of the hand-writing recalled so many painful
recollections, that she found herself unable to go through the first she
had opened, and sat musing, with her cheek resting on her arm, and tears
stealing from her eyes, when old Dorothee entered the room to inform
her, that dinner would be ready, an hour before the usual time. Emily
started on perceiving her, and hastily put up the papers, but not before
Dorothee had observed both her agitation and her tears.