The Mysteries of Udolpho

Emily and Valancourt talked of the scenes they had passed among

the Pyrenean Alps; as he spoke of which there was often a tremulous

tenderness in his voice, and sometimes he expatiated on them with all

the fire of genius, sometimes would appear scarcely conscious of the

topic, though he continued to speak. This subject recalled forcibly to

Emily the idea of her father, whose image appeared in every landscape,

which Valancourt particularized, whose remarks dwelt upon her memory,

and whose enthusiasm still glowed in her heart. Her silence, at length,

reminded Valancourt how nearly his conversation approached to the

occasion of her grief, and he changed the subject, though for one

scarcely less affecting to Emily. When he admired the grandeur of the

plane-tree, that spread its wide branches over the terrace, and under

whose shade they now sat, she remembered how often she had sat thus with

St. Aubert, and heard him express the same admiration.

'This was a favourite tree with my dear father,' said she; 'he used to

love to sit under its foliage with his family about him, in the fine

evenings of summer.'

Valancourt understood her feelings, and was silent; had she raised her

eyes from the ground she would have seen tears in his. He rose, and

leaned on the wall of the terrace, from which, in a few moments, he

returned to his seat, then rose again, and appeared to be greatly

agitated; while Emily found her spirits so much depressed, that several

of her attempts to renew the conversation were ineffectual. Valancourt

again sat down, but was still silent, and trembled. At length he said,

with a hesitating voice, 'This lovely scene!--I am going to leave--to

leave you--perhaps for ever! These moments may never return; I cannot

resolve to neglect, though I scarcely dare to avail myself of them. Let

me, however, without offending the delicacy of your sorrow, venture to

declare the admiration I must always feel of your goodness--O! that at

some future period I might be permitted to call it love!'

Emily's emotion would not suffer her to reply; and Valancourt, who now

ventured to look up, observing her countenance change, expected to see

her faint, and made an involuntary effort to support her, which recalled

Emily to a sense of her situation, and to an exertion of her spirits.

Valancourt did not appear to notice her indisposition, but, when he

spoke again, his voice told the tenderest love. 'I will not presume,' he

added, 'to intrude this subject longer upon your attention at this time,

but I may, perhaps, be permitted to mention, that these parting moments

would lose much of their bitterness if I might be allowed to hope the

declaration I have made would not exclude me from your presence in

future.' Emily made another effort to overcome the confusion of her thoughts,

and to speak. She feared to trust the preference her heart acknowledged

towards Valancourt, and to give him any encouragement for hope, on so

short an acquaintance. For though in this narrow period she had observed

much that was admirable in his taste and disposition, and though these

observations had been sanctioned by the opinion of her father, they were

not sufficient testimonies of his general worth to determine her upon a

subject so infinitely important to her future happiness as that, which

now solicited her attention. Yet, though the thought of dismissing

Valancourt was so very painful to her, that she could scarcely endure to

pause upon it, the consciousness of this made her fear the partiality of

her judgment, and hesitate still more to encourage that suit, for which

her own heart too tenderly pleaded. The family of Valancourt, if not

his circumstances, had been known to her father, and known to be

unexceptionable.