The Mysteries of Udolpho HTML version

Chapter I.6
I care not, Fortune! what you me deny;
You cannot rob me of free nature's grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora shews her brightening face;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave:
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.
In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily, neither of whom
seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of illness still hung over St. Aubert, and to
Emily's fears his disorder appeared to be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks
with anxious affection, and their expression was always faithfully reflected in her own.
At the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made known his name and
family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for the family estates, which were now in
the possession of an elder brother of Valancourt, were little more than twenty miles
distant from La Vallee, and he had sometimes met the elder Valancourt on visits in the
neighbourhood. This knowledge had made him more willingly receive his present
companion; for, though his countenance and manners would have won him the
acquaintance of St. Aubert, who was very apt to trust to the intelligence of his own eyes,
with respect to countenances, he would not have accepted these, as sufficient
introductions to that of his daughter.
The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding night; but their musing
was at length interrupted by the sound of the carriage wheels, which were to bear away
St. Aubert and Emily. Valancourt started from his chair, and went to the window; it was
indeed the carriage, and he returned to his seat without speaking. The moment was now
come when they must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he would never pass
La Vallee without favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt, eagerly thanking him,
assured him that he never would; as he said which he looked timidly at Emily, who tried
to smile away the seriousness of her spirits. They passed a few minutes in interesting
conversation, and St. Aubert then led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourt
following in silence. The latter lingered at the door several minutes after they were
seated, and none of the party seemed to have courage enough to say--Farewell. At length,
St. Aubert pronounced the melancholy word, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who
returned it, with a dejected smile, and the carriage drove on.