The Mysteries of Udolpho
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; nay,
indeed, I have often thought the people he disapproved were much more
agreeable than those he admired;—but there is no accounting for tastes.
He was always so much influenced by people’s countenances; 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 refreshment, and Madame Cheron accompanied her to the
château, 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 predilections 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 stifled 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 mortification she must submit to in her presence—a
degree of grief seized her, that almost reached despair. Madame Cheron,
more offended by the reproof which Emily’s words conveyed, than touched
by the sorrow they expressed, said nothing, that might soften 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 orphan, who had no appeal from her decisions, and on whom
she could exercise without control the capricious humour of the moment.
On entering the château, Madame Cheron expressed a desire, that she
would put up what she thought necessary to take to Thoulouse, as she
meant to set off immediately. Emily now tried to persuade her to defer
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 anticipation on that of
Emily, who, when her aunt retired 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 presentiment,
which frequently occurred to her, this night—that she should never more
return to La Vallée. 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, it was all
safe. She started, on observing her young lady, who bade her come in,
and then gave her some directions for keeping the château 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 château, lingering long in what had been her father’s
bedroom, 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, shown 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 farewell to the
beloved shades of her childhood, till she was tempted to descend.
Throwing over her the light veil, in which she usually walked, she
silently passed into the garden, and, hastening towards the distant
groves, was glad to breathe once more the air of liberty, and to sigh
unobserved. The deep repose of the scene, the rich scents, that floated
on the breeze, the grandeur of the wide horizon and of the clear blue
arch, soothed and gradually elevated her mind to that sublime
complacency, which renders the vexations of this world so insignificant
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 ascended to the contemplation of those
unnumbered worlds, that lie scattered in the depths of æther, 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
aspired to that Great First Cause, which pervades 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 pang of affection, and as
reason anticipated the exile, into which she was going.
And now the moon was high over the woods, touching their summits with
yellow light, and darting 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 lustre, listened
to the soothing murmur of the current, and the yet lighter sounds of
the air, as it stirred, at intervals, 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 parental 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 contemplated; the same divine complacency stole
over her heart, and, hushing its throbs, inspired hope and confidence
and resignation to the will of the Deity, whose works filled her mind
with adoration.
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 conversed
with Valancourt, at the remembrance of whom, thus revived, a mingled
sensation of esteem, tenderness and anxiety rose in her breast. With
this remembrance occurred a recollection of his late confession—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 incurring a
censure, which her aunt might so reasonably bestow, 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 château. 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 clump of almond trees,
not far from the house, she rested to take a retrospect of the garden,
and to sigh forth another adieu. As her eyes wandered over the
landscape she thought she perceived a person emerge from the groves,
and pass slowly along a moonlight alley 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
conjecture, she hurried to the château, 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, gliding
between the almond trees she had just left. She immediately withdrew
from the casement, and, though much agitated, sought in sleep the
refreshment of a short oblivion.
CHAPTER XI
I leave that flowery path for eye
Of childhood, where I sported many a day,
Warbling and sauntering carelessly along;
Where every face was innocent and gay,
Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue—
Sweet, wild, and artless, all.
THE MINSTREL
At an early hour, the carriage, which was to take Emily and Madame
Cheron to Thoulouse, appeared at the door of the château, and Madame
was already in the breakfast-room, when her niece entered it. The
repast was silent and melancholy on the part of Emily; and Madame
Cheron, whose vanity was piqued on observing her dejection, reproved
her in a manner that did not contribute to remove it. It was with much
reluctance, that Emily’s request to take with her the dog, which had
been a favourite of her father, was granted. Her aunt, impatient to be
gone, ordered the carriage to draw up; and, while she passed to the
hall door, Emily gave another look into the library, and another
farewell glance over the garden, and then followed. Old Theresa stood
at the door to take leave of her young lady. “God for ever keep you,
ma’amselle!” said she, while Emily gave her hand in silence, and could
answer only with a pressure of her hand, and a forced smile.
At the gate, which led out of the grounds, several of her father’s
pensioners were assembled to bid her farewell, to whom she would have
spoken, if her aunt would have suffered the driver to stop; and, having
distributed to them almost all the money she had about her, she sunk
back in the carriage, yielding to the melancholy of her heart. Soon
after, she caught, between the steep banks of the road, another view of
the château, peeping from among the high trees, and surrounded by green