The Mysteries of Udolpho

Having indulged her tears for some time, she became more composed; and,

when Theresa, after seeing the baggage deposited in her lady's room,

again appeared, she had so far recovered her spirits, as to be able to

converse with her.

'I have made up the green bed for you, ma'amselle,' said Theresa, as she

set the coffee upon the table. 'I thought you would like it better than

your own now; but I little thought this day month, that you would come

back alone. A-well-a-day! the news almost broke my heart, when it did

come. Who would have believed, that my poor master, when he went

from home, would never return again!' Emily hid her face with her

handkerchief, and waved her hand.

'Do taste the coffee,' said Theresa. 'My dear young lady, be

comforted--we must all die. My dear master is a saint above.' Emily

took the handkerchief from her face, and raised her eyes full of tears

towards heaven; soon after she dried them, and, in a calm, but tremulous

voice, began to enquire concerning some of her late father's pensioners.

'Alas-a-day!' said Theresa, as she poured out the coffee, and handed

it to her mistress, 'all that could come, have been here every day to

enquire after you and my master.' She then proceeded to tell, that

some were dead whom they had left well; and others, who were ill, had

recovered. 'And see, ma'amselle,' added Theresa, 'there is old Mary

coming up the garden now; she has looked every day these three years as

if she would die, yet she is alive still. She has seen the chaise at the

door, and knows you are come home.'

The sight of this poor old woman would have been too much for Emily, and

she begged Theresa would go and tell her, that she was too ill to see

any person that night. 'To-morrow I shall be better, perhaps; but give

her this token of my remembrance.'

Emily sat for some time, given up to sorrow. Not an object, on which her

eye glanced, but awakened some remembrance, that led immediately to the

subject of her grief. Her favourite plants, which St. Aubert had taught

her to nurse; the little drawings, that adorned the room, which his

taste had instructed her to execute; the books, that he had selected

for her use, and which they had read together; her musical instruments,

whose sounds he loved so well, and which he sometimes awakened

himself--every object gave new force to sorrow. At length, she roused

herself from this melancholy indulgence, and, summoning all her

resolution, stepped forward to go into those forlorn rooms, which,

though she dreaded to enter, she knew would yet more powerfully affect

her, if she delayed to visit them.