The Mysteries of Udolpho

I care not, Fortune! what you me deny;

You cannot rob me of free nature's grace;

You cannot shut the windows of the sky,

Through which Aurora shews her brightening face;

You cannot bar my constant feet to trace

The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:

Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,

And I their toys to the great children leave:

Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.

THOMSON

In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily,

neither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of illness

still hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily's fears his disorder appeared

to be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with anxious

affection, and their expression was always faithfully reflected in her

own.

At the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made known his

name and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for the

family estates, which were now in the possession of an elder brother of

Valancourt, were little more than twenty miles distant from La

Vallee, and he had sometimes met the elder Valancourt on visits in the

neighbourhood. This knowledge had made him more willingly receive his

present companion; for, though his countenance and manners would have

won him the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who was very apt to trust to the

intelligence of his own eyes, with respect to countenances, he would

not have accepted these, as sufficient introductions to that of his

daughter.

The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding night;

but their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the carriage

wheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily. Valancourt started

from his chair, and went to the window; it was indeed the carriage, and

he returned to his seat without speaking. The moment was now come when

they must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he would

never pass La Vallee without favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt,

eagerly thanking him, assured him that he never would; as he said which

he looked timidly at Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness of

her spirits. They passed a few minutes in interesting conversation,

and St. Aubert then led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourt

following in silence. The latter lingered at the door several minutes

after they were seated, and none of the party seemed to have courage

enough to say--Farewell. At length, St. Aubert pronounced the melancholy

word, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejected

smile, and the carriage drove on.