The Mysteries of Udolpho

Valancourt was more agitated, than before. 'I am unworthy of you,

Emily,' said he, 'I am unworthy of you;'--words, by his manner of

uttering which Emily was then more shocked than by their import. She

fixed on him a mournful and enquiring eye. 'Do not look thus on me,'

said he, turning away and pressing her hand; 'I cannot bear those

looks.' 'I would ask,' said Emily, in a gentle, but agitated voice, 'the meaning

of your words; but I perceive, that the question would distress you

now.

Let us talk on other subjects. To-morrow, perhaps, you may be more

composed. Observe those moon light woods, and the towers, which

appear obscurely in the perspective. You used to be a great admirer

of landscape, and I have heard you say, that the faculty of deriving

consolation, under misfortune, from the sublime prospects, which neither

oppression, or poverty with-hold from us, was the peculiar blessing of

the innocent.' Valancourt was deeply affected. 'Yes,' replied he, 'I

had once a taste for innocent and elegant delights--I had once an

uncorrupted heart.' Then, checking himself, he added, 'Do you remember

our journey together in the Pyrenees?'

'Can I forget it?' said Emily.--'Would that I could!' he replied;--'that

was the happiest period of my life. I then loved, with enthusiasm,

whatever was truly great, or good.' It was some time before Emily could

repress her tears, and try to command her emotions. 'If you wish to

forget that journey,' said she, 'it must certainly be my wish to forget

it also.' She paused, and then added, 'You make me very uneasy; but this

is not the time for further enquiry;--yet, how can I bear to believe,

even for a moment, that you are less worthy of my esteem than formerly?

I have still sufficient confidence in your candour, to believe, that,

when I shall ask for an explanation, you will give it me.'--'Yes,' said

Valancourt, 'yes, Emily: I have not yet lost my candour: if I had, I

could better have disguised my emotions, on learning what were your

sufferings--your virtues, while I--I--but I will say no more. I did

not mean to have said even so much--I have been surprised into

the self-accusation. Tell me, Emily, that you will not forget that

journey--will not wish to forget it, and I will be calm. I would not

lose the remembrance of it for the whole earth.'

'How contradictory is this!' said Emily;--'but we may be overheard. My

recollection of it shall depend upon yours; I will endeavour to forget,

or to recollect it, as you may do. Let us join the Count.'--'Tell

me first,' said Valancourt, 'that you forgive the uneasiness I have

occasioned you, this evening, and that you will still love me.'--'I

sincerely forgive you,' replied Emily. 'You best know whether I shall

continue to love you, for you know whether you deserve my esteem. At

present, I will believe that you do. It is unnecessary to say,' added

she, observing his dejection, 'how much pain it would give me to believe

otherwise.--The young lady, who approaches, is the Count's daughter.'