He paused a moment, while Emily attempted to conceal the tears, which
came to her eyes. She would have said, 'You speak now, as you were wont
to do,' but she checked herself.--'Forgive me, Emily,' said he, 'all the
sufferings I have occasioned you, and, sometimes, when you think of the
wretched Valancourt, remember, that his only consolation would be to
believe, that you are no longer unhappy by his folly.' The tears now
fell fast upon her cheek, and he was relapsing into the phrensy of
despair, when Emily endeavoured to recall her fortitude and to terminate
an interview, which only seemed to increase the distress of both.
Perceiving her tears and that she was rising to go, Valancourt
struggled, once more, to overcome his own feelings and to sooth hers.
'The remembrance of this sorrow,' said he, 'shall in future be my
protection. O! never again will example, or temptation have power to
seduce me to evil, exalted as I shall be by the recollection of your
grief for me.'
Emily was somewhat comforted by this assurance. 'We are now parting for
ever,' said she; 'but, if my happiness is dear to you, you will always
remember, that nothing can contribute to it more, than to believe, that
you have recovered your own esteem.' Valancourt took her hand;--his eyes
were covered with tears, and the farewell he would have spoken was lost
in sighs. After a few moments, Emily said, with difficulty and emotion,
'Farewell, Valancourt, may you be happy!' She repeated her 'farewell,'
and attempted to withdraw her hand, but he still held it and bathed
it with his tears. '
Why prolong these moments?' said Emily, in a voice
scarcely audible, 'they are too painful to us both.' 'This is too--too
much,' exclaimed Valancourt, resigning her hand and throwing himself
into a chair, where he covered his face with his hands and was overcome,
for some moments, by convulsive sighs. After a long pause, during which
Emily wept in silence, and Valancourt seemed struggling with his grief,
she again rose to take leave of him. Then, endeavouring to recover his
composure, 'I am again afflicting you,' said he, 'but let the anguish I
suffer plead for me.'
He then added, in a solemn voice, which frequently
trembled with the agitation of his heart, 'Farewell, Emily, you will
always be the only object of my tenderness. Sometimes you will think of
the unhappy Valancourt, and it will be with pity, though it may not be
with esteem. O! what is the whole world to me, without you--without your
esteem!' He checked himself--'I am falling again into the error I have
just lamented. I must not intrude longer upon your patience, or I shall
relapse into despair.'