The Mysteries of Udolpho

with less than his usual benignity, though it appeared, that they were not strangers to each other. He was invited, however, to partake of the diversions of the evening; and, when he had paid his respects to the Count, and while the dancers continued their festivity, he seated himself by Emily, and conversed, without restraint. The lights, which were hung among the trees, under which they sat, allowed her a more perfect view of the countenance she had so frequently in absence endeavoured to recollect, and she perceived, with some regret, that it was not the same as when last she saw it. There was all its wonted intelligence and fire; but it had lost much of the simplicity, and somewhat of the open benevolence, that used to characterise it. Still, however, it was an interesting countenance; but Emily thought she perceived, at intervals, anxiety contract, and melancholy fix the features of Valancourt; sometimes, too, he fell into a momentary musing, and then appeared anxious to dissipate thought; while, at others, as he fixed his eyes on Emily, a kind of sudden distraction seemed to cross his mind. In her he perceived the same goodness and beautiful simplicity, that had charmed him, on their first acquaintance. The bloom of her countenance was somewhat faded, but all its sweetness remained, and it was rendered more interesting, than ever, by the faint expression of melancholy, that sometimes mingled with her smile.

At his request, she related the most important circumstances, that had occurred to her, since she left France, and emotions of pity and indignation alternately prevailed in his mind, when he heard how much she had suffered from the villainy of Montoni. More than once, when she was speaking of his conduct, of which the guilt was rather softened, than exaggerated, by her representation, he started from his seat, and walked away, apparently overcome as much by self-accusation as by resentment. Her sufferings alone were mentioned in the few words, which he could address to her, and he listened not to the account, which she was careful to give as distinctly as possible, of the present loss of Madame Montoni’s estates, and of the little reason there was to expect their restoration. At length, Valancourt remained lost in thought, and then some secret cause seemed to overcome him with anguish. Again he abruptly left her. When he returned, she perceived that he had been weeping, and tenderly begged, that he would compose himself. “My sufferings are all passed now,” said she, “for I have escaped from the tyranny of Montoni, and I see you well⁠—let me also see you happy.”

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. Tomorrow, perhaps, you may be more composed. Observe those moonlight 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, nor poverty withhold 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.”

Valancourt and Emily now joined the Lady Blanche; and the party, soon after, sat down with the Count, his son, and the Chevalier Du Pont, at a banquet, spread under a gay awning, beneath the trees. At the table also were seated several of the most venerable of the