The Mysteries of Udolpho | Page 7

faded from the west; till the lonely
sound of a sheep-bell, or the distant bark of a watch-dog, were all that
broke on the stillness of the evening. Then, the gloom of the woods; the
trembling of their leaves, at intervals, in the breeze; the bat, flitting on
the twilight; the cottage-lights, now seen, and now lost--were
circumstances that awakened her mind into effort, and led to
enthusiasm and poetry.
Her favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St. Aubert,
in a woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet that descended from the
Pyrenees, and, after foaming among their rocks, wound its silent way
beneath the shades it reflected. Above the woods, that screened this
glen, rose the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, which often burst boldly
on the eye through the glades below. Sometimes the shattered face of a
rock only was seen, crowned with wild shrubs; or a shepherd's cabin
seated on a cliff, overshadowed by dark cypress, or waving ash.
Emerging from the deep recesses of the woods, the glade opened to the
distant landscape, where the rich pastures and vine-covered slopes of
Gascony gradually declined to the plains; and there, on the winding
shores of the Garonne, groves, and hamlets, and villas--their outlines
softened by distance, melted from the eye into one rich harmonious
tint.
This, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which he frequently

withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his daughter, and his
books; or came at the sweet evening hour to welcome the silent dusk,
or to listen for the music of the nightingale. Sometimes, too, he brought
music of his own, and awakened every fairy echo with the tender
accents of his oboe; and often have the tones of Emily's voice drawn
sweetness from the waves, over which they trembled.
It was in one of these excursions to this spot, that she observed the
following lines written with a pencil on a part of the wainscot:
SONNET
Go, pencil! faithful to thy master's sighs! Go--tell the Goddess of the
fairy scene, When next her light steps wind these wood-walks green,
Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise; Ah! paint her form, her
soul-illumin'd eyes, The sweet expression of her pensive face, The
light'ning smile, the animated grace-- The portrait well the lover's voice
supplies; Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say: Yet ah!
not all his heart must sadly feel! How oft the flow'ret's silken leaves
conceal The drug that steals the vital spark away! And who that gazes
on that angel-smile, Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile!
These lines were not inscribed to any person; Emily therefore could not
apply them to herself, though she was undoubtedly the nymph of these
shades. Having glanced round the little circle of her acquaintance
without being detained by a suspicion as to whom they could be
addressed, she was compelled to rest in uncertainty; an uncertainty
which would have been more painful to an idle mind than it was to hers.
She had no leisure to suffer this circumstance, trifling at first, to swell
into importance by frequent remembrance. The little vanity it had
excited (for the incertitude which forbade her to presume upon having
inspired the sonnet, forbade her also to disbelieve it) passed away, and
the incident was dismissed from her thoughts amid her books, her
studies, and the exercise of social charities.
Soon after this period, her anxiety was awakened by the indisposition
of her father, who was attacked with a fever; which, though not thought
to be of a dangerous kind, gave a severe shock to his constitution.

Madame St. Aubert and Emily attended him with unremitting care; but
his recovery was very slow, and, as he advanced towards health,
Madame seemed to decline.
The first scene he visited, after he was well enough to take the air, was
his favourite fishing-house. A basket of provisions was sent thither,
with books, and Emily's lute; for fishing-tackle he had no use, for he
never could find amusement in torturing or destroying.
After employing himself, for about an hour, in botanizing, dinner was
served. It was a repast, to which gratitude, for being again permitted to
visit this spot, gave sweetness; and family happiness once more smiled
beneath these shades. Monsieur St. Aubert conversed with unusual
cheerfulness; every object delighted his senses. The refreshing pleasure
from the first view of nature, after the pain of illness, and the
confinement of a sick-chamber, is above the conceptions, as well as the
descriptions, of those in health. The green woods and pastures; the
flowery turf; the blue concave of the heavens; the balmy air; the
murmur of the limpid stream; and even the hum of every little insect of
the