'Pray, Theresa, cease,' said Emily, wishing to interrupt this
ill-judged, but well-meaning harangue; Theresa's loquacity, however,
was not to be silenced so easily. 'And when you used to grieve so,' she
added, 'he often told you how wrong it was--for that my mistress was
happy. And, if she was happy, I am sure he is so too; for the prayers of
the poor, they say, reach heaven.' During this speech, Emily had walked
silently into the chateau, and Theresa lighted her across the hall
into the common sitting parlour, where she had laid the cloth, with one
solitary knife and fork, for supper. Emily was in the room before she
perceived that it was not her own apartment, but she checked the emotion
which inclined her to leave it, and seated herself quietly by the little
supper table. Her father's hat hung upon the opposite wall; while she
gazed at it, a faintness came over her. Theresa looked at her, and then
at the object, on which her eyes were settled, and went to remove it;
but Emily waved her hand--'No,' said she, 'let it remain. I am going
to my chamber.' 'Nay, ma'amselle, supper is ready.' 'I cannot take it,'
replied Emily, 'I will go to my room, and try to sleep. Tomorrow I shall
be better.'
'This is poor doings!' said Theresa. 'Dear lady! do take some food! I
have dressed a pheasant, and a fine one it is. Old Monsieur Barreaux
sent it this morning, for I saw him yesterday, and told him you were
coming. And I know nobody that seemed more concerned, when he heard the
sad news, then he.' 'Did he?' said Emily, in a tender voice, while she felt her poor heart
warmed for a moment by a ray of sympathy.
At length, her spirits were entirely overcome, and she retired to her
room.