The Mysteries of Udolpho

'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 chateau, lingering long in what had been her father's

bed-room, 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, shewn 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 farewel 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 aether, 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.