The Mysteries of Udolpho

Her sighs were deep and convulsed; she could no longer listen to the

strain, that had so often charmed her to tranquillity, and she withdrew

from the casement to a remote part of the chamber. But she was not yet

beyond the reach of the music; she heard the measure change, and the

succeeding air called her again to the window, for she immediately

recollected it to be the same she had formerly heard in the

fishing-house in Gascony. Assisted, perhaps, by the mystery, which had

then accompanied this strain, it had made so deep an impression on her

memory, that she had never since entirely forgotten it; and the manner,

in which it was now sung, convinced her, however unaccountable the

circumstances appeared, that this was the same voice she had then

heard.

Surprise soon yielded to other emotions; a thought darted,

like lightning, upon her mind, which discovered a train of hopes, that

revived all her spirits. Yet these hopes were so new, so unexpected,

so astonishing, that she did not dare to trust, though she could not

resolve to discourage them. She sat down by the casement, breathless,

and overcome with the alternate emotions of hope and fear; then rose

again, leaned from the window, that she might catch a nearer sound,

listened, now doubting and then believing, softly exclaimed the name of

Valancourt, and then sunk again into the chair. Yes, it was possible,

that Valancourt was near her, and she recollected circumstances,

which induced her to believe it was his voice she had just heard. She

remembered he had more than once said that the fishing-house, where

she had formerly listened to this voice and air, and where she had seen

pencilled sonnets, addressed to herself, had been his favourite haunt,

before he had been made known to her; there, too, she had herself

unexpectedly met him.

It appeared, from these circumstances, more

than probable, that he was the musician, who had formerly charmed her

attention, and the author of the lines, which had expressed such tender

admiration;--who else, indeed, could it be? She was unable, at

that time, to form a conjecture, as to the writer, but, since

her acquaintance with Valancourt, whenever he had mentioned the

fishing-house to have been known to him, she had not scrupled to believe

that he was the author of the sonnets.

As these considerations passed over her mind, joy, fear and tenderness

contended at her heart; she leaned again from the casement to catch the

sounds, which might confirm, or destroy her hope, though she did

not recollect to have ever heard him sing; but the voice, and the

instrument, now ceased.