The Mysteries of Udolpho

'I envy you this cottage, my good friends,' said St. Aubert, as he met

them, 'it is so pleasant, so quiet, and so neat; and this air, that one

breathes--if any thing could restore lost health, it would surely be

this air.' La Voisin bowed gratefully, and replied, with the gallantry of a

Frenchman, 'Our cottage may be envied, sir, since you and Mademoiselle

have honoured it with your presence.' St. Aubert gave him a friendly

smile for his compliment, and sat down to a table, spread with cream,

fruit, new cheese, butter, and coffee. Emily, who had observed her

father with attention and thought he looked very ill, endeavoured to

persuade him to defer travelling till the afternoon; but he seemed very

anxious to be at home, and his anxiety he expressed repeatedly, and with

an earnestness that was unusual with him. He now said, he found himself

as well as he had been of late, and that he could bear travelling better

in the cool hour of the morning, than at any other time. But, while

he was talking with his venerable host, and thanking him for his kind

attentions, Emily observed his countenance change, and, before she could

reach him, he fell back in his chair. In a few moments he recovered from

the sudden faintness that had come over him, but felt so ill, that

he perceived himself unable to set out, and, having remained a little

while, struggling against the pressure of indisposition, he begged he

might be helped up stairs to bed.

This request renewed all the terror

which Emily had suffered on the preceding evening; but, though scarcely

able to support herself, under the sudden shock it gave her, she tried

to conceal her apprehensions from St. Aubert, and gave her trembling arm

to assist him to the door of his chamber.

When he was once more in bed, he desired that Emily, who was then

weeping in her own room, might be called; and, as she came, he waved his

hand for every other person to quit the apartment. When they were alone,

he held out his hand to her, and fixed his eyes upon her countenance,

with an expression so full of tenderness and grief, that all her

fortitude forsook her, and she burst into an agony of tears. St. Aubert

seemed struggling to acquire firmness, but was still unable to speak; he

could only press her hand, and check the tears that stood trembling in

his eyes. At length he commanded his voice, 'My dear child,' said he,

trying to smile through his anguish, 'my dear Emily!'--and paused again.

He raised his eyes to heaven, as if in prayer, and then, in a firmer

tone, and with a look, in which the tenderness of the father was

dignified by the pious solemnity of the saint, he said, 'My dear child,

I would soften the painful truth I have to tell you, but I find myself

quite unequal to the art. Alas! I would, at this moment, conceal it from

you, but that it would be most cruel to deceive you. It cannot be

long before we must part; let us talk of it, that our thoughts and our

prayers may prepare us to bear it.' His voice faltered, while Emily,

still weeping, pressed his hand close to her heart, which swelled with a

convulsive sigh, but she could not look up.