The Mysteries of Udolpho

St. Aubert, some time after, spoke of Madame Cheron, his sister. 'Let

me inform you of a circumstance, that nearly affects your welfare,' he

added. 'We have, you know, had little intercourse for some years, but,

as she is now your only female relation, I have thought it proper to

consign you to her care, as you will see in my will, till you are of

age, and to recommend you to her protection afterwards. She is not

exactly the person, to whom I would have committed my Emily, but I had

no alternative, and I believe her to be upon the whole--a good kind of

woman. I need not recommend it to your prudence, my love, to endeavour

to conciliate her kindness; you will do this for his sake, who has often

wished to do so for yours.'

Emily assured him, that, whatever he requested she would religiously

perform to the utmost of her ability. 'Alas!' added she, in a voice

interrupted by sighs, 'that will soon be all which remains for me; it

will be almost my only consolation to fulfil your wishes.' S

t. Aubert looked up silently in her face, as if would have spoken, but

his spirit sunk a while, and his eyes became heavy and dull. She felt

that look at her heart. 'My dear father!' she exclaimed; and then,

checking herself, pressed his hand closer, and hid her face with

her handkerchief. Her tears were concealed, but St. Aubert heard her

convulsive sobs. His spirits returned. 'O my child!' said he, faintly,

'let my consolations be yours. I die in peace; for I know, that I

am about to return to the bosom of my Father, who will still be your

Father, when I am gone. Always trust in him, my love, and he will

support you in these moments, as he supports me.'

Emily could only listen, and weep; but the extreme composure of his

manner, and the faith and hope he expressed, somewhat soothed her

anguish. Yet, whenever she looked upon his emaciated countenance, and

saw the lines of death beginning to prevail over it--saw his sunk eyes,

still bent on her, and their heavy lids pressing to a close, there was a

pang in her heart, such as defied expression, though it required filial

virtue, like hers, to forbear the attempt.

He desired once more to bless her; 'Where are you, my dear?' said he,

as he stretched forth his hands. Emily had turned to the window, that he

might not perceive her anguish; she now understood, that his sight had

failed him. When he had given her his blessing, and it seemed to be the

last effort of expiring life, he sunk back on his pillow. She kissed

his forehead; the damps of death had settled there, and, forgetting her

fortitude for a moment, her tears mingled with them. St. Aubert lifted

up his eyes; the spirit of a father returned to them, but it quickly

vanished, and he spoke no more.