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The Mysteries of Udolpho

Chapter II.1
Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see,
My heart untravell'd still shall turn to thee.
The carriages were at the gates at an early hour; the bustle of the domestics, passing to
and fro in the galleries, awakened Emily from harassing slumbers: her unquiet mind had,
during the night, presented her with terrific images and obscure circumstances,
concerning her affection and her future life. She now endeavoured to chase away the
impressions they had left on her fancy; but from imaginary evils she awoke to the
consciousness of real ones. Recollecting that she had parted with Valancourt, perhaps for
ever, her heart sickened as memory revived. But she tried to dismiss the dismal
forebodings that crowded on her mind, and to restrain the sorrow which she could not
subdue; efforts which diffused over the settled melancholy of her countenance an
expression of tempered resignation, as a thin veil, thrown over the features of beauty,
renders them more interesting by a partial concealment. But Madame Montoni observed
nothing in this countenance except its usual paleness, which attracted her censure. She
told her niece, that she had been indulging in fanciful sorrows, and begged she would
have more regard for decorum, than to let the world see that she could not renounce an
improper attachment; at which Emily's pale cheek became flushed with crimson, but it
was the blush of pride, and she made no answer. Soon after, Montoni entered the
breakfast room, spoke little, and seemed impatient to be gone.
The windows of this room opened upon the garden. As Emily passed them, she saw the
spot where she had parted with Valancourt on the preceding night: the remembrance
pressed heavily on her heart, and she turned hastily away from the object that had
awakened it.
The baggage being at length adjusted, the travellers entered their carriages, and Emily
would have left the chateau without one sigh of regret, had it not been situated in the
neighbourhood of Valancourt's residence.
From a little eminence she looked back upon Tholouse, and the far- seen plains of
Gascony, beyond which the broken summits of the Pyrenees appeared on the distant
horizon, lighted up by a morning sun. 'Dear pleasant mountains!' said she to herself, 'how
long may it be ere I see ye again, and how much may happen to make me miserable in the
interval! Oh, could I now be certain, that I should ever return to ye, and find that
Valancourt still lived for me, I should go in peace! He will still gaze on ye, gaze when I
am far away!'
The trees, that impended over the high banks of the road and formed a line of perspective
with the distant country, now threatened to exclude the view of them; but the blueish