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The Mysteries of Udolpho

Page 106

Emily suppressed a starting tear, and tried to smile away the expression

of an oppressed heart; she was thinking of HER home, and felt too

sensibly the arrogance and ostentatious vanity of Madame Cheron's

conversation. 'Can this be my father's sister!' said she to herself; and

then the conviction that she was so, warming her heart with something

like kindness towards her, she felt anxious to soften the harsh

impression her mind had received of her aunt's character, and to shew

a willingness to oblige her. The effort did not entirely fail; she

listened with apparent cheerfulness, while Madame Cheron expatiated

on the splendour of her house, told of the numerous parties she

entertained, and what she should expect of Emily, whose diffidence

assumed the air of a reserve, which her aunt, believing it to be that

of pride and ignorance united, now took occasion to reprehend. She knew

nothing of the conduct of a mind, that fears to trust its own powers;

which, possessing a nice judgment, and inclining to believe, that every

other person perceives still more critically, fears to commit itself

to censure, and seeks shelter in the obscurity of silence. Emily had

frequently blushed at the fearless manners, which she had seen admired,

and the brilliant nothings, which she had heard applauded; yet this

applause, so far from encouraging her to imitate the conduct that had

won it, rather made her shrink into the reserve, that would protect her

from such absurdity.

Madame Cheron looked on her niece's diffidence with a feeling very near

to contempt, and endeavoured to overcome it by reproof, rather than to

encourage it by gentleness.

The entrance of supper somewhat interrupted the complacent discourse of

Madame Cheron and the painful considerations, which it had forced

upon Emily. When the repast, which was rendered ostentatious by the

attendance of a great number of servants, and by a profusion of plate,

was over, Madame Cheron retired to her chamber, and a female servant

came to shew Emily to hers. Having passed up a large stair-case, and

through several galleries, they came to a flight of back stairs, which

led into a short passage in a remote part of the chateau, and there

the servant opened the door of a small chamber, which she said was

Ma'amselle Emily's, who, once more alone, indulged the tears she had

long tried to restrain.

Those, who know, from experience, how much the heart becomes attached

even to inanimate objects, to which it has been long accustomed, how

unwillingly it resigns them; how with the sensations of an old friend it

meets them, after temporary absence, will understand the forlornness

of Emily's feelings, of Emily shut out from the only home she had

known from her infancy, and thrown upon a scene, and among persons,

disagreeable for more qualities than their novelty. Her father's

favourite dog, now in the chamber, thus seemed to acquire the character

and importance of a friend; and, as the animal fawned over her when she

wept, and licked her hands, 'Ah, poor Manchon!' said she, 'I have nobody

now to love me--but you!' and she wept the more. After some time, her

thoughts returning to her father's injunctions, she remembered how often

he had blamed her for indulging useless sorrow; how often he had pointed

out to her the necessity of fortitude and patience, assuring her, that

the faculties of the mind strengthen by exertion, till they finally

unnerve affliction, and triumph over it. These recollections dried her

tears, gradually soothed her spirits, and inspired her with the sweet

emulation of practising precepts, which her father had so frequently

inculcated.

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