used
to do so, and bade me go to service again--Alas! I was too old for
that!--The Chevalier found me, and bought me this cottage, and gave me
money to furnish it, and bade me seek out another poor woman to live
with me; and he ordered his brother's steward to pay me, every quarter,
that which has supported me in comfort. Think then, mademoiselle,
whether I have not reason to speak well of the Chevalier. And there are
others, who could have afforded it better than he: and I am afraid he
has hurt himself by his generosity, for quarter day is gone by long
since, and no money for me! But do not weep so, mademoiselle: you are
not sorry surely to hear of the poor Chevalier's goodness?'

'Sorry!' said Emily, and wept the more. 'But how long is it since you
have seen him?'

'Not this many a day, mademoiselle.'

'When did you hear of him?' enquired Emily, with increased emotion.

'Alas! never since he went away so suddenly into Languedoc; and he was
but just come from Paris then, or I should have seen him, I am sure.
Quarter day is gone by long since, and, as I said, no money for me; and
I begin to fear some harm has happened to him: and if I was not so far
from Estuviere and so lame, I should have gone to enquire before this
time; and I have nobody to send so far.'

Emily's anxiety, as to the fate of Valancourt, was now scarcely
endurable, and, since propriety would not suffer her to send to the
chateau of his brother, she requested that Theresa would immediately
hire some person to go to his steward from herself, and, when he asked
for the quarterage due to her, to make enquiries concerning Valancourt.
But she first made Theresa promise never to mention her name in this
affair, or ever with that of the Chevalier Valancourt; and her
former faithfulness to M. St. Aubert induced Emily to confide in her
assurances. Theresa now joyfully undertook to procure a person for this
errand, and then Emily, after giving her a sum of money to supply her
with present comforts, returned, with spirits heavily oppressed, to her
home, lamenting, more than ever, that an heart, possessed of so much
benevolence as Valancourt's, should have been contaminated by the vices
of the world, but affected by the delicate affection, which his kindness
to her old servant expressed for herself.

CHAPTER XII

Light thickens, and the crow
Makes wing to the rooky wood:
Good things of day begin to droop, and drowze;
While night's black agents