Austin Potter - "From Wealth to Poverty"

Francis Marion Crawford - "The Heart of Rome"

Thomas de Quincey - "Theological Essays and Other Papers v2"

David Graham Phillips - "The Fashionable Adventures of Joshua Craig"

The Mysteries of Udolpho

A >> Ann Radcliffe >> The Mysteries of Udolpho






CHAPTER XVIII


Then, fresh tears
Stood on her cheek, as doth the honey-dew
Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd
SHAKESPEARE

After the late discoveries, Emily was distinguished at the chateau by
the Count and his family, as a relative of the house of Villeroi, and
received, if possible, more friendly attention, than had yet been
shewn her.

Count De Villefort's surprise at the delay of an answer to his
letter, which had been directed to Valancourt, at Estuviere, was
mingled with satisfaction for the prudence, which had saved Emily
from a share of the anxiety he now suffered, though, when he saw her
still drooping under the effect of his former error, all his
resolution was necessary to restrain him from relating the truth,
that would afford her a momentary relief. The approaching nuptials
of the Lady Blanche now divided his attention with this subject of
his anxiety, for the inhabitants of the chateau were already busied
in preparations for that event, and the arrival of Mons. St. Foix was
daily expected. In the gaiety, which surrounded her, Emily vainly
tried to participate, her spirits being depressed by the late
discoveries, and by the anxiety concerning the fate of Valancourt,
that had been occasioned by the description of his manner, when he
had delivered the ring. She seemed to perceive in it the gloomy
wildness of despair; and, when she considered to what that despair
might have urged him, her heart sunk with terror and grief. The
state of suspense, as to his safety, to which she believed herself
condemned, till she should return to La Vallee, appeared
insupportable, and, in such moments, she could not even struggle to
assume the composure, that had left her mind, but would often
abruptly quit the company she was with, and endeavour to sooth her
spirits in the deep solitudes of the woods, that overbrowed the
shore. Here, the faint roar of foaming waves, that beat below, and
the sullen murmur of the wind among the branches around, were
circumstances in unison with the temper of her mind; and she would
sit on a cliff, or on the broken steps of her favourite watch-tower,
observing the changing colours of the evening clouds, and the gloom
of twilight draw over the sea, till the white tops of billows, riding
towards the shore, could scarcely be discerned amidst the darkened
waters. The lines, engraved by Valancourt on this tower, she
frequently repeated with melancholy enthusiasm, and then would
endeavour to check the recollections and the grief they occasioned,
and to turn her thoughts to indifferent subjects.

One evening, having wandered with her lute to this her favourite
spot, she entered the ruined tower, and ascended a winding staircase,
that led to a small chamber, which was less decayed than the rest of
the building, and whence she had often gazed, with admiration, on the
wide prospect of sea and land, that extended below. The sun was now
setting on that tract of the Pyrenees, which divided Languedoc from
Rousillon, and, placing herself opposite to a small grated window,
which, like the wood-tops beneath, and the waves lower still, gleamed
with the red glow of the west, she touched the chords of her lute in
solemn symphony, and then accompanied it with her voice, in one of
the simple and affecting airs, to which, in happier days, Valancourt
had often listened in rapture, and which she now adapted to the
following lines.

TO MELANCHOLY

Spirit of love and sorrow--hail!
Thy solemn voice from far I hear,
Mingling with ev'ning's dying gale:
Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear!

O! at this still, this lonely hour,
Thine own sweet hour of closing day,
Awake thy lute, whose charmful pow'r
Shall call up Fancy to obey:

To paint the wild romantic dream,
That meets the poet's musing eye,
As, on the bank of shadowy stream,
He breathes to her the fervid sigh.

O lonely spirit! let thy song
Lead me through all thy sacred haunt;
The minister's moon-light aisles along,
Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt.

I hear their dirges faintly swell!
Then, sink at once in silence drear,
While, from the pillar'd cloister's cell,
Dimly their gliding forms appear!

Lead where the pine-woods wave on high,
Whose pathless sod is darkly seen,
As the cold moon, with trembling eye,
Darts her long beams the leaves between.

Lead to the mountain's dusky head,
Where, far below, in shade profound,
Wide forests, plains and hamlets spread,
And sad the chimes of vesper sound,

Or guide me, where the dashing oar
Just breaks the stillness of the vale,
As slow it tracks the winding shore,
To meet the ocean's distant sail:

To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves,
With measur'd surges, loud and deep,
Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves,
And wild the winds of autumn sweep.

There pause at midnight's spectred hour,
And list the long-resounding gale;
And catch the fleeting moon-light's pow'r,
O'er foaming seas and distant sail.

The soft tranquillity of the scene below, where the evening breeze
scarcely curled the water, or swelled the passing sail, that caught
the last gleam of the sun, and where, now and then, a dipping oar was
all that disturbed the trembling radiance, conspired with the tender
melody of her lute to lull her mind into a state of gentle sadness,
and she sung the mournful songs of past times, till the remembrances
they awakened were too powerful for her heart, her tears fell upon
the lute, over which she drooped, and her voice trembled, and was
unable to proceed.

Though the sun had now sunk behind the mountains, and even his
reflected light was fading from their highest points, Emily did not
leave the watch-tower, but continued to indulge her melancholy
reverie, till a footstep, at a little distance, startled her, and, on
looking through the grate, she observed a person walking below, whom,
however, soon perceiving to be Mons. Bonnac, she returned to the
quiet thoughtfulness his step had interrupted. After some time, she
again struck her lute, and sung her favourite air; but again a step
disturbed her, and, as she paused to listen, she heard it ascending
the stair-case of the tower. The gloom of the hour, perhaps, made
her sensible to some degree of fear, which she might not otherwise
have felt; for, only a few minutes before, she had seen Mons. Bonnac
pass. The steps were quick and bounding, and, in the next moment,
the door of the chamber opened, and a person entered, whose features
were veiled in the obscurity of twilight; but his voice could not be
concealed, for it was the voice of Valancourt! At the sound, never
heard by Emily, without emotion, she started, in terror, astonishment
and doubtful pleasure, and had scarcely beheld him at her feet, when
she sunk into a seat, overcome by the various emotions, that
contended at her heart, and almost insensible to that voice, whose
earnest and trembling calls seemed as if endeavouring to save her.
Valancourt, as he hung over Emily, deplored his own rash impatience,
in having thus surprised her: for when he had arrived at the
chateau, too anxious to await the return of the Count, who, he
understood, was in the grounds, he went himself to seek him, when, as
he passed the tower, he was struck by the sound of Emily's voice, and
immediately ascended.

It was a considerable time before she revived, but, when her
recollection returned, she repulsed his attentions, with an air of
reserve, and enquired, with as much displeasure as it was possible
she could feel in these first moments of his appearance, the occasion
of his visit.

'Ah Emily!' said Valancourt, 'that air, those words--alas! I have,
then, little to hope--when you ceased to esteem me, you ceased also
to love me!'

'Most true, sir,' replied Emily, endeavouring to command her
trembling voice; 'and if you had valued my esteem, you would not have
given me this new occasion for uneasiness.'

Valancourt's countenance changed suddenly from the anxieties of doubt
to an expression of surprise and dismay: he was silent a moment, and
then said, 'I had been taught to hope for a very different reception!
Is it, then, true, Emily, that I have lost your regard forever? am I
to believe, that, though your esteem for me may return--your
affection never can? Can the Count have meditated the cruelty, which
now tortures me with a second death?'

The voice, in which he spoke this, alarmed Emily as much as his words
surprised her, and, with trembling impatience, she begged that he
would explain them.

'Can any explanation be necessary?' said Valancourt, 'do you not know
how cruelly my conduct has been misrepresented? that the actions of
which you once believed me guilty (and, O Emily! how could you so
degrade me in your opinion, even for a moment!) those actions--I hold
in as much contempt and abhorrence as yourself? Are you, indeed,
ignorant, that Count de Villefort has detected the slanders, that
have robbed me of all I hold dear on earth, and has invited me hither
to justify to you my former conduct? It is surely impossible you can
be uninformed of these circumstances, and I am again torturing myself
with a false hope!'

The silence of Emily confirmed this supposition; for the deep
twilight would not allow Valancourt to distinguish the astonishment
and doubting joy, that fixed her features. For a moment, she
continued unable to speak; then a profound sigh seemed to give some
relief to her spirits, and she said,

'Valancourt! I was, till this moment, ignorant of all the
circumstances you have mentioned; the emotion I now suffer may assure
you of the truth of this, and, that, though I had ceased to esteem, I
had not taught myself entirely to forget you.'

'This moment,' said Valancourt, in a low voice, and leaning for
support against the window--'this moment brings with it a conviction
that overpowers me!--I am dear to you then--still dear to you, my
Emily!'

'Is it necessary that I should tell you so?' she replied, 'is it
necessary, that I should say--these are the first moments of joy I
have known, since your departure, and that they repay me for all
those of pain I have suffered in the interval?'

Valancourt sighed deeply, and was unable to reply; but, as he pressed
her hand to his lips, the tears, that fell over it, spoke a language,
which could not be mistaken, and to which words were inadequate.

Emily, somewhat tranquillized, proposed returning to the chateau, and
then, for the first time, recollected that the Count had invited
Valancourt thither to explain his conduct, and that no explanation
had yet been given. But, while she acknowledged this, her heart
would not allow her to dwell, for a moment, on the possibility of his
unworthiness; his look, his voice, his manner, all spoke the noble
sincerity, which had formerly distinguished him; and she again
permitted herself to indulge the emotions of a joy, more surprising
and powerful, than she had ever before experienced.

Neither Emily, or Valancourt, were conscious how they reached the
chateau, whither they might have been transferred by the spell of a
fairy, for any thing they could remember; and it was not, till they
had reached the great hall, that either of them recollected there
were other persons in the world besides themselves. The Count then
came forth with surprise, and with the joyfulness of pure
benevolence, to welcome Valancourt, and to entreat his forgiveness of
the injustice he had done him; soon after which, Mons. Bonnac joined
this happy group, in which he and Valancourt were mutually rejoiced
to meet.

When the first congratulations were over, and the general joy became
somewhat more tranquil, the Count withdrew with Valancourt to the
library, where a long conversation passed between them, in which the
latter so clearly justified himself of the criminal parts of the
conduct, imputed to him, and so candidly confessed and so feelingly
lamented the follies, which he had committed, that the Count was
confirmed in his belief of all he had hoped; and, while he perceived
so many noble virtues in Valancourt, and that experience had taught
him to detest the follies, which before he had only not admired, he
did not scruple to believe, that he would pass through life with the
dignity of a wise and good man, or to entrust to his care the future
happiness of Emily St. Aubert, for whom he felt the solicitude of a
parent. Of this he soon informed her, in a short conversation, when
Valancourt had left him. While Emily listened to a relation of the
services, that Valancourt had rendered Mons. Bonnac, her eyes
overflowed with tears of pleasure, and the further conversation of
Count De Villefort perfectly dissipated every doubt, as to the past
and future conduct of him, to whom she now restored, without fear,
the esteem and affection, with which she had formerly received him.

When they returned to the supper-room, the Countess and Lady Blanche
met Valancourt with sincere congratulations; and Blanche, indeed, was
so much rejoiced to see Emily returned to happiness, as to forget,
for a while, that Mons. St. Foix was not yet arrived at the chateau,
though he had been expected for some hours; but her generous sympathy
was, soon after, rewarded by his appearance. He was now perfectly
recovered from the wounds, received, during his perilous adventure
among the Pyrenees, the mention of which served to heighten to the
parties, who had been involved in it, the sense of their present
happiness. New congratulations passed between them, and round the
supper-table appeared a group of faces, smiling with felicity, but
with a felicity, which had in each a different character. The smile
of Blanche was frank and gay, that of Emily tender and pensive;
Valancourt's was rapturous, tender and gay alternately; Mons. St.
Foix's was joyous, and that of the Count, as he looked on the
surrounding party, expressed the tempered complacency of benevolence;
while the features of the Countess, Henri, and Mons. Bonnac,
discovered fainter traces of animation. Poor Mons. Du Pont did not,
by his presence, throw a shade of regret over the company; for, when
he had discovered, that Valancourt was not unworthy of the esteem of
Emily, he determined seriously to endeavour at the conquest of his
own hopeless affection, and had immediately withdrawn from Chateau-
le-Blanc--a conduct, which Emily now understood, and rewarded with
her admiration and pity.

The Count and his guests continued together till a late hour,
yielding to the delights of social gaiety, and to the sweets of
friendship. When Annette heard of the arrival of Valancourt,
Ludovico had some difficulty to prevent her going into the supper-
room, to express her joy, for she declared, that she had never been
so rejoiced at any ACCIDENT as this, since she had found Ludovico
himself.



CHAPTER XIX


Now my task is smoothly done,
I can fly, or I can run
Quickly to the green earth's end,
Where the bow'd welkin low doth bend,
And, from thence, can soar as soon
To the corners of the moon.
MILTON

The marriages of the Lady Blanche and Emily St. Aubert were
celebrated, on the same day, and with the ancient baronial
magnificence, at Chateau-le-Blanc. The feasts were held in the great
hall of the castle, which, on this occasion, was hung with superb new
tapestry, representing the exploits of Charlemagne and his twelve
peers; here, were seen the Saracens, with their horrible visors,
advancing to battle; and there, were displayed the wild solemnities
of incantation, and the necromantic feats, exhibited by the magician
JARL before the Emperor. The sumptuous banners of the family of
Villeroi, which had long slept in dust, were once more unfurled, to
wave over the gothic points of painted casements; and music echoed,
in many a lingering close, through every winding gallery and
colonnade of that vast edifice.

As Annette looked down from the corridor upon the hall, whose arches
and windows were illuminated with brilliant festoons of lamps, and
gazed on the splendid dresses of the dancers, the costly liveries of
the attendants, the canopies of purple velvet and gold, and listened
to the gay strains that floated along the vaulted roof, she almost
fancied herself in an enchanted palace, and declared, that she had
not met with any place, which charmed her so much, since she read the
fairy tales; nay, that the fairies themselves, at their nightly
revels in this old hall, could display nothing finer; while old
Dorothee, as she surveyed the scene, sighed, and said, the castle
looked as it was wont to do in the time of her youth.

After gracing the festivities of Chateau-le-Blanc, for some days,
Valancourt and Emily took leave of their kind friends, and returned
to La Vallee, where the faithful Theresa received them with unfeigned
joy, and the pleasant shades welcomed them with a thousand tender and
affecting remembrances; and, while they wandered together over the
scenes, so long inhabited by the late Mons. and Madame St. Aubert,
and Emily pointed out, with pensive affection, their favourite
haunts, her present happiness was heightened, by considering, that it
would have been worthy of their approbation, could they have
witnessed it.

Valancourt led her to the plane-tree on the terrace, where he had
first ventured to declare his love, and where now the remembrance of
the anxiety he had then suffered, and the retrospect of all the
dangers and misfortunes they had each encountered, since last they
sat together beneath its broad branches, exalted the sense of their
present felicity, which, on this spot, sacred to the memory of St.
Aubert, they solemnly vowed to deserve, as far as possible, by
endeavouring to imitate his benevolence,--by remembering, that
superior attainments of every sort bring with them duties of superior
exertion,--and by affording to their fellow-beings, together with
that portion of ordinary comforts, which prosperity always owes to
misfortune, the example of lives passed in happy thankfulness to GOD,
and, therefore, in careful tenderness to his creatures.

Soon after their return to La Vallee, the brother of Valancourt came
to congratulate him on his marriage, and to pay his respects to
Emily, with whom he was so much pleased, as well as with the prospect
of rational happiness, which these nuptials offered to Valancourt,
that he immediately resigned to him a part of the rich domain, the
whole of which, as he had no family, would of course descend to his
brother, on his decease.

The estates, at Tholouse, were disposed of, and Emily purchased of
Mons. Quesnel the ancient domain of her late father, where, having
given Annette a marriage portion, she settled her as the housekeeper,
and Ludovico as the steward; but, since both Valancourt and herself
preferred the pleasant and long-loved shades of La Vallee to the
magnificence of Epourville, they continued to reside there, passing,
however, a few months in the year at the birth-place of St. Aubert,
in tender respect to his memory.

The legacy, which had been bequeathed to Emily by Signora Laurentini,
she begged Valancourt would allow her to resign to Mons. Bonnac; and
Valancourt, when she made the request, felt all the value of the
compliment it conveyed. The castle of Udolpho, also, descended to
the wife of Mons. Bonnac, who was the nearest surviving relation of
the house of that name, and thus affluence restored his long-
oppressed spirits to peace, and his family to comfort.

O! how joyful it is to tell of happiness, such as that of Valancourt
and Emily; to relate, that, after suffering under the oppression of
the vicious and the disdain of the weak, they were, at length,
restored to each other--to the beloved landscapes of their native
country,--to the securest felicity of this life, that of aspiring to
moral and labouring for intellectual improvement--to the pleasures of
enlightened society, and to the exercise of the benevolence, which
had always animated their hearts; while the bowers of La Vallee
became, once more, the retreat of goodness, wisdom and domestic
blessedness!

O! useful may it be to have shewn, that, though the vicious can
sometimes pour affliction upon the good, their power is transient and
their punishment certain; and that innocence, though oppressed by
injustice, shall, supported by patience, finally triumph over
misfortune!

And, if the weak hand, that has recorded this tale, has, by its
scenes, beguiled the mourner of one hour of sorrow, or, by its moral,
taught him to sustain it--the effort, however humble, has not been
vain, nor is the writer unrewarded.

Copyright (c) 2007. topbookz.net. All rights reserved.