The Mysteries of Udolpho

Emily remained at his grave, till a chime, that called

the monks to early prayers, warned her to retire; then, she wept over

it a last farewel, and forced herself from the spot. After this hour of

melancholy indulgence, she was refreshed by a deeper sleep, than she

had experienced for a long time, and, on awakening, her mind was more

tranquil and resigned, than it had been since St. Aubert's death.

But, when the moment of her departure from the convent arrived, all her

grief returned; the memory of the dead, and the kindness of the living

attached her to the place; and for the sacred spot, where her father's

remains were interred, she seemed to feel all those tender affections

which we conceive for home. The abbess repeated many kind assurances of

regard at their parting, and pressed her to return, if ever she should

find her condition elsewhere unpleasant; many of the nuns also expressed

unaffected regret at her departure, and Emily left the convent with many

tears, and followed by sincere wishes for her happiness.

She had travelled several leagues, before the scenes of the country,

through which she passed, had power to rouse her for a moment from the

deep melancholy, into which she was sunk, and, when they did, it was

only to remind her, that, on her last view of them, St. Aubert was at

her side, and to call up to her remembrance the remarks he had delivered

on similar scenery. Thus, without any particular occurrence, passed

the day in languor and dejection. She slept that night in a town on the

skirts of Languedoc, and, on the following morning, entered Gascony.

Towards the close of this day, Emily came within view of the plains in

the neighbourhood of La Vallee, and the well-known objects of former

times began to press upon her notice, and with them recollections, that

awakened all her tenderness and grief. Often, while she looked through

her tears upon the wild grandeur of the Pyrenees, now varied with the

rich lights and shadows of evening, she remembered, that, when last she

saw them, her father partook with her of the pleasure they inspired.

Suddenly some scene, which he had particularly pointed out to her, would

present itself, and the sick languor of despair would steal upon her

heart. 'There!' she would exclaim, 'there are the very cliffs, there the

wood of pines, which he looked at with such delight, as we passed this

road together for the last time. There, too, under the crag of that

mountain, is the cottage, peeping from among the cedars, which he bade

me remember, and copy with my pencil. O my father, shall I never see you

more!'