Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

  ‘I have just heard of a circumstance, which entirely destroys all my fairy paradise of ideal delight, and which will reconcile me to the necessity of returning to my regiment, for I must no longer wander beneath the beloved shades, where I have been accustomed to meet you in thought. — La Vallee is let! I have reason to believe this is without your knowledge, from what Theresa told me this morning, and, therefore, I mention the circumstance. She shed tears, while she related, that she was going to leave the service of her dear mistress, and the chateau where she had lived so many happy years; and all this, added she, without even a letter from Mademoiselle to soften the news; but it is all Mons. Quesnel’s doings, and I dare say she does not even know what is going forward.’

  ‘Theresa added, That she had received a letter from him, informing her the chateau was let, and that, as her services would no longer be required, she must quit the place, on that day week, when the new tenant would arrive.’

  ‘Theresa had been surprised by a visit from M. Quesnel, some time before the receipt of this letter, who was accompanied by a stranger that viewed the premises with much curiosity.’

  Towards the conclusion of his letter, which is dated a week after this sentence, Valancourt adds, ‘I have received a summons from my regiment, and I join it without regret, since I am shut out from the scenes that are so interesting to my heart. I rode to La Vallee this morning, and heard that the new tenant was arrived, and that Theresa was gone. I should not treat the subject thus familiarly if I did not believe you to be uninformed of this disposal of your house; for your satisfaction I have endeavoured to learn something of the character and fortune of your tenant, but without success. He is a gentleman, they say, and this is all I can hear. The place, as I wandered round the boundaries, appeared more melancholy to my imagination, than I had ever seen it. I wished earnestly to have got admittance, that I might have taken another leave of your favourite plane-tree, and thought of you once more beneath its shade: but I forbore to tempt the curiosity of strangers: the fishing-house in the woods, however, was still open to me; thither I went, and passed an hour, which I cannot even look back upon without emotion. O Emily! surely we are not separated for ever — surely we shall live for each other!’

  This letter brought many tears to Emily’s eyes; tears of tenderness and satisfaction on learning that Valancourt was well, and that time and absence had in no degree effaced her image from his heart. There were passages in this letter which particularly affected her, such as those describing his visits to La Vallee, and the sentiments of delicate affection that its scenes had awakened. It was a considerable time before her mind was sufficiently abstracted from Valancourt to feel the force of his intelligence concerning La Vallee. That Mons. Quesnel should let it, without even consulting her on the measure, both surprised and shocked her, particularly as it proved the absolute authority he thought himself entitled to exercise in her affairs. It is true, he had proposed, before she left France, that the chateau should be let, during her absence, and to the oeconomical prudence of this she had nothing to object; but the committing what had been her father’s villa to the power and caprice of strangers, and the depriving herself of a sure home, should any unhappy circumstances make her look back to her home as an asylum, were considerations that made her, even then, strongly oppose the measure. Her father, too, in his last hour, had received from her a solemn promise never to dispose of La Vallee; and this she considered as in some degree violated if she suffered the place to be let. But it was now evident with how little respect M. Quesnel had regarded these objections, and how insignificant he considered every obstacle to pecuniary advantage. It appeared, also, that he had not even condescended to inform Montoni of the step he had taken, since no motive was evident for Montoni’s concealing the circumstance from her, if it had been made known to him: this both displeased and surprised her; but the chief subjects of her uneasiness were — the temporary disposal of La Vallee, and the dismission of her father’s old and faithful servant.— ‘Poor Theresa,’ said Emily, ‘thou hadst not saved much in thy servitude, for thou wast always tender towards the poor, and believd’st thou shouldst die in the family, where thy best years had been spent. Poor Theresa! — now thou art turned out in thy old age to seek thy bread!’

  Emily wept bitterly as these thoughts passed over her mind, and she determined to consider what could be done for Theresa, and to talk very explicitly to M. Quesnel on the subject; but she much feared that his cold heart could feel only for itself. She determined also to enquire whether he had made any mention of her affairs, in his letter to Montoni, who soon gave her the opportunity she sought, by desiring that she would attend him in his study. She had little doubt, that the interview was intended for the purpose of communicating to her a part of M. Quesnel’s letter concerning the transactions at La Vallee, and she obeyed him immediately. Montoni was alone.

  ‘I have just been writing to Mons. Quesnel,’ said he when Emily appeared, ‘in reply to the letter I received from him a few days ago, and I wished to talk to you upon a subject that occupied part of it.’

  ‘I also wished to speak with you on this topic, sir,’ said Emily.

  ‘It is a subject of some interest to you, undoubtedly,’ rejoined Montoni, ‘and I think you must see it in the light that I do; indeed it will not bear any other. I trust you will agree with me, that any objection founded on sentiment, as they call it, ought to yield to circumstances of solid advantage.’

  ‘Granting this, sir,’ replied Emily, modestly, ‘those of humanity ought surely to be attended to. But I fear it is now too late to deliberate upon this plan, and I must regret, that it is no longer in my power to reject it.’

  ‘It is too late,’ said Montoni; ‘but since it is so, I am pleased to observe, that you submit to reason and necessity without indulging useless complaint. I applaud this conduct exceedingly, the more, perhaps, since it discovers a strength of mind seldom observable in your sex. When you are older you will look back with gratitude to the friends who assisted in rescuing you from the romantic illusions of sentiment, and will perceive, that they are only the snares of childhood, and should be vanquished the moment you escape from the nursery. I have not closed my letter, and you may add a few lines to inform your uncle of your acquiescence. You will soon see him, for it is my intention to take you, with Madame Montoni, in a few days to Miarenti, and you can then talk over the affair.’

  Emily wrote on the opposite page of the paper as follows:

  ‘It is now useless, sir, for me to remonstrate upon the circumstances

  of which Signor Montoni informs me that he has written. I could

  have wished, at least, that the affair had been concluded with

  less precipitation, that I might have taught myself to subdue some

  prejudices, as the Signor calls them, which still linger in my heart. As

  it is, I submit. In point of prudence nothing certainly can be objected;

  but, though I submit, I have yet much to say on some other points of the

  subject, when I shall have the honour of seeing you. In the meantime I

  entreat you will take care of Theresa, for the sake of, Sir,

  Your affectionate niece,

  EMILY ST. AUBERT.’

  Montoni smiled satirically at what Emily had written, but did not object to it, and she withdrew to her own apartment, where she sat down to begin a letter to Valancourt, in which she related the particulars of her journey, and her arrival at Venice, described some of the most striking scenes in the passage over the Alps; her emotions on her first view of Italy; the manners and characters of the people around her, and some few circumstances of Montoni’s conduct. But she avoided even naming Count Morano, much more the declaration he had made, since she well knew how tremblingly alive to fear is real love, how jealously watchful of every circumstance that may affect its interest; and she scrupulously avoided to give Valancourt even the slightest reason for believing he had a rival.

  On the follo
wing day Count Morano dined again at Montoni’s. He was in an uncommon flow of spirits, and Emily thought there was somewhat of exultation in his manner of addressing her, which she had never observed before. She endeavoured to repress this by more than her usual reserve, but the cold civility of her air now seemed rather to encourage than to depress him. He appeared watchful of an opportunity of speaking with her alone, and more than once solicited this; but Emily always replied, that she could hear nothing from him which he would be unwilling to repeat before the whole company.

  In the evening, Madame Montoni and her party went out upon the sea, and as the Count led Emily to his zendaletto, he carried her hand to his lips, and thanked her for the condescension she had shown him. Emily, in extreme surprise and displeasure, hastily withdrew her hand, and concluded that he had spoken ironically; but, on reaching the steps of the terrace, and observing by the livery, that it was the Count’s zendaletto which waited below, while the rest of the party, having arranged themselves in the gondolas, were moving on, she determined not to permit a separate conversation, and, wishing him a good evening, returned to the portico. The Count followed to expostulate and entreat, and Montoni, who then came out, rendered solicitation unnecessary, for, without condescending to speak, he took her hand, and led her to the zendaletto. Emily was not silent; she entreated Montoni, in a low voice, to consider the impropriety of these circumstances, and that he would spare her the mortification of submitting to them; he, however, was inflexible.

  ‘This caprice is intolerable,’ said he, ‘and shall not be indulged: there is no impropriety in the case.’

  At this moment, Emily’s dislike of Count Morano rose to abhorrence. That he should, with undaunted assurance, thus pursue her, notwithstanding all she had expressed on the subject of his addresses, and think, as it was evident he did, that her opinion of him was of no consequence, so long as his pretensions were sanctioned by Montoni, added indignation to the disgust which she had felt towards him. She was somewhat relieved by observing that Montoni was to be of the party, who seated himself on one side of her, while Morano placed himself on the other. There was a pause for some moments as the gondolieri prepared their oars, and Emily trembled from apprehension of the discourse that might follow this silence. At length she collected courage to break it herself, in the hope of preventing fine speeches from Morano, and reproof from Montoni. To some trivial remark which she made, the latter returned a short and disobliging reply; but Morano immediately followed with a general observation, which he contrived to end with a particular compliment, and, though Emily passed it without even the notice of a smile, he was not discouraged.

  ‘I have been impatient,’ said he, addressing Emily, ‘to express my gratitude; to thank you for your goodness; but I must also thank Signor Montoni, who has allowed me this opportunity of doing so.’

  Emily regarded the Count with a look of mingled astonishment and displeasure.

  ‘Why,’ continued he, ‘should you wish to diminish the delight of this moment by that air of cruel reserve? — Why seek to throw me again into the perplexities of doubt, by teaching your eyes to contradict the kindness of your late declaration? You cannot doubt the sincerity, the ardour of my passion; it is therefore unnecessary, charming Emily! surely unnecessary, any longer to attempt a disguise of your sentiments.’

  ‘If I ever had disguised them, sir,’ said Emily, with recollected spirit, ‘it would certainly be unnecessary any longer to do so. I had hoped, sir, that you would have spared me any farther necessity of alluding to them; but, since you do not grant this, hear me declare, and for the last time, that your perseverance has deprived you even of the esteem, which I was inclined to believe you merited.’

  ‘Astonishing!’ exclaimed Montoni: ‘this is beyond even my expectation, though I have hitherto done justice to the caprice of the sex! But you will observe, Mademoiselle Emily, that I am no lover, though Count Morano is, and that I will not be made the amusement of your capricious moments. Here is the offer of an alliance, which would do honour to any family; yours, you will recollect, is not noble; you long resisted my remonstrances, but my honour is now engaged, and it shall not be trifled with. — You shall adhere to the declaration, which you have made me an agent to convey to the Count.’

  ‘I must certainly mistake you, sir,’ said Emily; ‘my answers on the subject have been uniform; it is unworthy of you to accuse me of caprice. If you have condescended to be my agent, it is an honour I did not solicit. I myself have constantly assured Count Morano, and you also, sir, that I never can accept the honour he offers me, and I now repeat the declaration.’

  The Count looked with an air of surprise and enquiry at Montoni, whose countenance also was marked with surprise, but it was surprise mingled with indignation.

  ‘Here is confidence, as well as caprice!’ said the latter. ‘Will you deny your own words, Madam?’

  ‘Such a question is unworthy of an answer, sir;’ said Emily blushing; ‘you will recollect yourself, and be sorry that you have asked it.’

  ‘Speak to the point,’ rejoined Montoni, in a voice of increasing vehemence. ‘Will you deny your own words; will you deny, that you acknowledged, only a few hours ago, that it was too late to recede from your engagements, and that you accepted the Count’s hand?’

  ‘I will deny all this, for no words of mine ever imported it.’

  ‘Astonishing! Will you deny what you wrote to Mons. Quesnel, your uncle? if you do, your own hand will bear testimony against you. What have you now to say?’ continued Montoni, observing the silence and confusion of Emily.

  ‘I now perceive, sir, that you are under a very great error, and that I have been equally mistaken.’

  ‘No more duplicity, I entreat; be open and candid, if it be possible.’

  ‘I have always been so, sir; and can claim no merit in such conduct, for I have had nothing to conceal.’

  ‘How is this, Signor?’ cried Morano, with trembling emotion.

  ‘Suspend your judgment, Count,’ replied Montoni, ‘the wiles of a female heart are unsearchable. Now, Madame, your EXPLANATION.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, if I withhold my explanation till you appear willing to give me your confidence; assertion as present can only subject me to insult.’

  ‘Your explanation, I entreat you!’ said Morano.

  ‘Well, well,’ rejoined Montoni, ‘I give you my confidence; let us hear this explanation.’

  ‘Let me lead to it then, by asking a question.’

  ‘As many as you please,’ said Montoni, contemptuously.

  ‘What, then, was the subject of your letter to Mons. Quesnel?’

  ‘The same that was the subject of your note to him, certainly. You did well to stipulate for my confidence before you demanded that question.’

  ‘I must beg you will be more explicit, sir; what was that subject?’

  ‘What could it be, but the noble offer of Count Morano,’ said Montoni.

  ‘Then, sir, we entirely misunderstood each other,’ replied Emily.

  ‘We entirely misunderstood each other too, I suppose,’ rejoined Montoni, ‘in the conversation which preceded the writing of that note? I must do you the justice to own, that you are very ingenious at this same art of misunderstanding.’

  Emily tried to restrain the tears that came to her eyes, and to answer with becoming firmness. ‘Allow me, sir, to explain myself fully, or to be wholly silent.’

  ‘The explanation may now be dispensed with; it is anticipated. If Count Morano still thinks one necessary, I will give him an honest one — You have changed your intention since our last conversation; and, if he can have patience and humility enough to wait till tomorrow, he will probably find it changed again: but as I have neither the patience or the humility, which you expect from a lover, I warn you of the effect of my displeasure!’

  ‘Montoni, you are too precipitate,’ said the Count, who had listened to this conversation in extreme agitation and impatience;— ‘Signora, I entreat your own ex
planation of this affair!’

  ‘Signor Montoni has said justly,’ replied Emily, ‘that all explanation may now be dispensed with; after what has passed I cannot suffer myself to give one. It is sufficient for me, and for you, sir, that I repeat my late declaration; let me hope this is the last time it will be necessary for me to repeat it — I never can accept the honour of your alliance.’

  ‘Charming Emily!’ exclaimed the Count in an impassioned tone, ‘let not resentment make you unjust; let me not suffer for the offence of Montoni! — Revoke— ‘

  ‘Offence!’ interrupted Montoni— ‘Count, this language is ridiculous, this submission is childish! — speak as becomes a man, not as the slave of a pretty tyrant.’

  ‘You distract me, Signor; suffer me to plead my own cause; you have already proved insufficient to it.’

  ‘All conversation on this subject, sir,’ said Emily, ‘is worse than useless, since it can bring only pain to each of us: if you would oblige me, pursue it no farther.’

  ‘It is impossible, Madam, that I can thus easily resign the object of a passion, which is the delight and torment of my life. — I must still love — still pursue you with unremitting ardour; — when you shall be convinced of the strength and constancy of my passion, your heart must soften into pity and repentance.’

  ‘Is this generous, sir? is this manly? can it either deserve or obtain the esteem you solicit, thus to continue a persecution from which I have no present means of escaping?’

  A gleam of moonlight that fell upon Morano’s countenance, revealed the strong emotions of his soul; and, glancing on Montoni discovered the dark resentment, which contrasted his features.

  ‘By heaven this is too much!’ suddenly exclaimed the Count; ‘Signor Montoni, you treat me ill; it is from you that I shall look for explanation.’

  ‘From me, sir! you shall have it;’ muttered Montoni, ‘if your discernment is indeed so far obscured by passion, as to make explanation necessary. And for you, Madam, you should learn, that a man of honour is not to be trifled with, though you may, perhaps, with impunity, treat a BOY like a puppet.’