The Mysteries of Udolpho

Refreshed by the cool and fragrant air, and her spirits soothed to a

state of gentle melancholy by the stilly murmur of the brook below and

of the woods around, she lingered at her casement long after the sun

had set, watching the valley sinking into obscurity, till only the

grand outline of the surrounding mountains, shadowed upon the horizon,

remained visible. But a clear moon-light, that succeeded, gave to the

landscape, what time gives to the scenes of past life, when it softens

all their harsher features, and throws over the whole the mellowing

shade of distant contemplation. The scenes of La Vallee, in the early

morn of her life, when she was protected and beloved by parents equally

loved, appeared in Emily's memory tenderly beautiful, like the prospect

before her, and awakened mournful comparisons. Unwilling to encounter

the coarse behaviour of the peasant's wife, she remained supperless in

her room, while she wept again over her forlorn and perilous situation,

a review of which entirely overcame the small remains of her fortitude,

and, reducing her to temporary despondence, she wished to be released

from the heavy load of life, that had so long oppressed her, and prayed

to Heaven to take her, in its mercy, to her parents.

Wearied with weeping, she, at length, lay down on her mattress, and sunk

to sleep, but was soon awakened by a knocking at her chamber door,

and, starting up in terror, she heard a voice calling her. The image of

Bertrand, with a stilletto in his hand, appeared to her alarmed fancy,

and she neither opened the door, or answered, but listened in profound

silence, till, the voice repeating her name in the same low tone, she

demanded who called. 'It is I, Signora,' replied the voice, which she

now distinguished to be Maddelina's, 'pray open the door. Don't be

frightened, it is I.'

'And what brings you here so late, Maddelina?' said Emily, as she let

her in. 'Hush! signora, for heaven's sake hush!--if we are overheard I shall

never be forgiven. My father and mother and Bertrand are all gone

to bed,' continued Maddelina, as she gently shut the door, and crept

forward, 'and I have brought you some supper, for you had none, you

know, Signora, below stairs. Here are some grapes and figs and half a

cup of wine.' Emily thanked her, but expressed apprehension lest

this kindness should draw upon her the resentment of Dorina, when she

perceived the fruit was gone. 'Take it back, therefore, Maddelina,'

added Emily, 'I shall suffer much less from the want of it, than

I should do, if this act of good-nature was to subject you to your

mother's displeasure.'