The Mysteries of Udolpho

Madame Cheron returned no answer to Emily's letter, who began to

hope, that she should be permitted to remain some time longer in her

retirement, and her mind had now so far recovered its strength, that she

ventured to view the scenes, which most powerfully recalled the images

of past times. Among these was the fishing-house; and, to indulge still

more the affectionate melancholy of the visit, she took thither her

lute, that she might again hear there the tones, to which St. Aubert and

her mother had so often delighted to listen. She went alone, and at that

still hour of the evening which is so soothing to fancy and to grief.

The last time she had been here she was in company with Monsieur and

Madame St. Aubert, a few days preceding that, on which the latter was

seized with a fatal illness. Now, when Emily again entered the woods,

that surrounded the building, they awakened so forcibly the memory of

former times, that her resolution yielded for a moment to excess of

grief.

She stopped, leaned for support against a tree, and wept for some

minutes, before she had recovered herself sufficiently to proceed. The

little path, that led to the building, was overgrown with grass and the

flowers which St. Aubert had scattered carelessly along the border

were almost choked with weeds--the tall thistle--the fox-glove, and the

nettle. She often paused to look on the desolate spot, now so silent and

forsaken, and when, with a trembling hand, she opened the door of the

fishing-house, 'Ah!' said she, 'every thing--every thing remains as when

I left it last--left it with those who never must return!' She went to

a window, that overhung the rivulet, and, leaning over it, with her eyes

fixed on the current, was soon lost in melancholy reverie. The lute

she had brought lay forgotten beside her; the mournful sighing of the

breeze, as it waved the high pines above, and its softer whispers among

the osiers, that bowed upon the banks below, was a kind of music more

in unison with her feelings. It did not vibrate on the chords of

unhappy memory, but was soothing to the heart as the voice of Pity. She

continued to muse, unconscious of the gloom of evening, and that the

sun's last light trembled on the heights above, and would probably have

remained so much longer, if a sudden footstep, without the building,

had not alarmed her attention, and first made her recollect that she was

unprotected. In the next moment, a door opened, and a stranger appeared,

who stopped on perceiving Emily, and then began to apologize for his

intrusion. But Emily, at the sound of his voice, lost her fear in a

stronger emotion: its tones were familiar to her ear, and, though she

could not readily distinguish through the dusk the features of the

person who spoke, she felt a remembrance too strong to be distrusted.