The Mysteries of Udolpho
been unable to overcome her opinion, as to her duty, her disinterested
considerations for Valancourt, and the delicacy, which made her revolt
from a clandestine union. It was not to be expected, that a vague
terror would be more powerful, than the united influence of love and
grief. But it recalled all their energy, and rendered a second conquest
necessary.
With Valancourt, whose imagination was now awake to the suggestion of
every passion; whose apprehensions for Emily had acquired strength by
the mere mention of them, and became every instant more powerful, as
his mind brooded over them—with Valancourt no second conquest was
attainable. He thought he saw in the clearest light, and love assisted
the fear, that this journey to Italy would involve Emily in misery; he
determined, therefore, to persevere in opposing it, and in conjuring
her to bestow upon him the title of her lawful protector.
“Emily!” said he, with solemn earnestness, “this is no time for
scrupulous distinctions, for weighing the dubious and comparatively
trifling circumstances, that may affect our future comfort. I now see,
much more clearly than before, the train of serious dangers you are
going to encounter with a man of Montoni’s character. Those dark hints
of the Italian spoke much, but not more than the idea I have of
Montoni’s disposition, as exhibited even in his countenance. I think I
see at this moment all that could have been hinted, written there. He
is the Italian, whom I fear, and I conjure you for your own sake, as
well as for mine, to prevent the evils I shudder to foresee. O Emily!
let my tenderness, my arms withhold you from them—give me the right to
defend you!”
Emily only sighed, while Valancourt proceeded to remonstrate and to
entreat with all the energy that love and apprehension could inspire.
But, as his imagination magnified to her the possible evils she was
going to meet, the mists of her own fancy began to dissipate, and
allowed her to distinguish the exaggerated images, which imposed on his
reason. She considered, that there was no proof of Montoni being the
person, whom the stranger had meant; that, even if he was so, the
Italian had noticed his character and broken fortunes merely from
report; and that, though the countenance of Montoni seemed to give
probability to a part of the rumour, it was not by such circumstances
that an implicit belief of it could be justified. These considerations
would probably not have arisen so distinctly to her mind, at this time,
had not the terrors of Valancourt presented to her such obvious
exaggerations of her danger, as incited her to distrust the fallacies
of passion. But, while she endeavoured in the gentlest manner to
convince him of his error, she plunged him into a new one. His voice
and countenance changed to an expression of dark despair. “Emily!” said
he, “this, this moment is the bitterest that is yet come to me. You do
not—cannot love me!—It would be impossible for you to reason thus
coolly, thus deliberately, if you did. I, _I_ am torn with anguish at
the prospect of our separation, and of the evils that may await you in
consequence of it; I would encounter any hazards to prevent it—to save
you. No! Emily, no!—you cannot love me.”
“We have now little time to waste in exclamation, or assertion,” said
Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion: “if you are yet to learn
how dear you are, and ever must be, to my heart, no assurances of mine
can give you conviction.”
The last words faltered on her lips, and her tears flowed fast. These
words and tears brought, once more, and with instantaneous force,
conviction of her love to Valancourt. He could only exclaim, “Emily!
Emily!” and weep over the hand he pressed to his lips; but she, after
some moments, again roused herself from the indulgence of sorrow, and
said, “I must leave you; it is late, and my absence from the château
may be discovered. Think of me—love me—when I am far away; the belief
of this will be my comfort!”
“Think of you!—love you!” exclaimed Valancourt.
“Try to moderate these transports,” said Emily, “for my sake, try.”
“For your sake!”
“Yes, for my sake,” replied Emily, in a tremulous voice, “I cannot
leave you thus!”
“Then do not leave me!” said Valancourt, with quickness. “Why should we
part, or part for longer than till tomorrow?”
“I am, indeed I am, unequal to these moments,” replied Emily, “you tear
my heart, but I never can consent to this hasty, imprudent proposal!”
“If we could command our time, my Emily, it should not be thus hasty;
we must submit to circumstances.”
“We must indeed! I have already told you all my heart—my spirits are
gone. You allowed the force of my objections, till your tenderness
called up vague terrors, which have given us both unnecessary anguish.
Spare me! do not oblige me to repeat the reasons I have already urged.”
“Spare you!” cried Valancourt, “I am a wretch—a very wretch, that have
felt only for myself!—I! who ought to have shown the fortitude of a
man, who ought to have supported you, I have increased your sufferings
by the conduct of a child! Forgive me, Emily! think of the distraction
of my mind now that I am about to part with all that is dear to me—and
forgive me! When you are gone, I shall recollect with bitter remorse
what I have made you suffer, and shall wish in vain that I could see
you, if only for a moment, that I might sooth your grief.”
Tears again interrupted his voice, and Emily wept with him. “I will
show myself more worthy of your love,” said Valancourt, at length; “I
will not prolong these moments. My Emily—my own Emily! never forget me!
God knows when we shall meet again! I resign you to his care.—O God!—O
God!—protect and bless her!”
He pressed her hand to his heart. Emily sunk almost lifeless on his
bosom, and neither wept, nor spoke. Valancourt, now commanding his own
distress, tried to comfort and reassure her, but she appeared totally
unaffected by what he said, and a sigh, which she uttered, now and
then, was all that proved she had not fainted.
He supported her slowly towards the château, weeping and speaking to
her; but she answered only in sighs, till, having reached the gate,
that terminated the avenue, she seemed to have recovered her
consciousness, and, looking round, perceived how near they were to the
château. “We must part here,” said she, stopping, “Why prolong these
moments? Teach me the fortitude I have forgot.”
Valancourt struggled to assume a composed air. “Farewell, my love!”
said he, in a voice of solemn tenderness—“trust me we shall meet
again—meet for each other—meet to part no more!” His voice faltered,
but, recovering it, he proceeded in a firmer tone. “You know not what I
shall suffer, till I hear from you; I shall omit no opportunity of
conveying to you my letters, yet I tremble to think how few may occur.
And trust me, love, for your dear sake, I will try to bear this absence
with fortitude. O how little I have shown tonight!”
“Farewell!” said Emily faintly. “When you are gone, I shall think of
many things I would have said to you.” “And I of many—many!” said
Valancourt; “I never left you yet, that I did not immediately remember
some question, or some entreaty, or some circumstance, concerning my
love, that I earnestly wished to mention, and feel wretched because I
could not. O Emily! this countenance, on which I now gaze—will, in a
moment, be gone from my eyes, and not all the efforts of fancy will be
able to recall it with exactness. O! what an infinite difference
between this moment and the next!—_now_, I am in your presence, can
behold you! _then_, all will be a dreary blank—and I shall be a
wanderer, exiled from my only home!”
Valancourt again pressed her to his heart, and held her there in
silence, weeping. Tears once again calmed her oppressed mind. They
again bade each other farewell, lingered a moment, and then parted.
Valancourt seemed to force himself from the spot; he passed hastily up
the avenue, and Emily, as she moved slowly towards the château, heard
his distant steps. She listened to the sounds, as they sunk fainter and
fainter, till the melancholy stillness of night alone remained; and
then hurried to her chamber, to seek repose, which, alas! was fled from
her wretchedness.
VOLUME 2
CHAPTER I
Where’er I roam, whatever realms I see,
My heart untravell’d still shall turn to thee.
GOLDSMITH
The carriages were at the gates at an early hour; the bustle of the
domestics, passing to and fro in the galleries, awakened Emily from
harassing slumbers: her unquiet mind had, during the night, presented
her with terrific images and obscure circumstances, concerning her
affection and her future life. She now endeavoured to chase away the
impressions they had left on her fancy; but from imaginary evils she
awoke to the consciousness of real ones. Recollecting that she had
parted with Valancourt, perhaps for ever, her heart sickened as memory
revived. But she tried to dismiss the dismal forebodings that crowded
on her mind, and to restrain the sorrow which she could not subdue;
efforts which diffused over the settled melancholy of her countenance
an expression of tempered resignation, as a thin veil, thrown over the
features of beauty, renders them more interesting by a partial
concealment. But Madame Montoni observed nothing in this countenance
except its usual paleness, which attracted her censure. She told her
niece, that she had been indulging in fanciful sorrows, and begged she
would have more regard for decorum, than to let the world see that she
could not renounce an improper attachment; at which Emily’s pale cheek
became flushed with crimson, but it was the blush of pride, and she
made no answer. Soon after, Montoni entered the breakfast room, spoke
little, and seemed impatient to be gone.
The windows of this room opened upon the garden. As Emily passed them,
she saw the spot where she had parted with Valancourt on the preceding
night: the remembrance pressed heavily on her heart, and she turned
hastily away from the object that had awakened it.
The baggage being at length adjusted, the travellers entered their
carriages, and Emily would have left the château without one sigh of
regret, had it not been situated in the neighbourhood of Valancourt’s
residence.
From a little eminence she looked back upon Thoulouse, and the far-seen
plains of Gascony, beyond which the broken summits of the Pyrenees
appeared on the distant horizon, lighted up by a morning sun. “Dear
pleasant mountains!” said she to herself, “how long may it be ere I see
ye again, and how much may happen to make me miserable in the interval!
Oh, could I now be certain, that I should ever return to ye, and find
that Valancourt still lived for me, I should go in peace! He will still
gaze on ye, gaze when I am far away!”
The trees, that impended over the high banks of the road and formed a
line of perspective with the distant country, now threatened to exclude
the view of them; but the bluish mountains still appeared beyond the
dark foliage, and Emily continued to lean from the coach window, till
at length the closing branches shut them from her sight.
Another object soon caught her attention. She had scarcely looked at a
person who walked along the bank, with his hat, in which was the
military feather, drawn over his eyes, before, at the sound of wheels,
he suddenly turned, and she perceived that it was Valancourt himself,
who waved his hand, sprung into the road, and through the window of the
carriage put a letter into her hand. He endeavoured to smile through
the despair that overspread his countenance as she passed on. The
remembrance of that smile seemed impressed on Emily’s mind for ever.