Mr Somerville and Emily were both there. He was reading aloud;
she sat at the table with a book before her: but her thoughts, it was
evident, were not there; she had inserted her taper fingers into
the ringlets of her hair, until the palms of her hand reached her
forehead; then, bending her head towards the table, she leaned on her
elbows, and seemed absorbed in the most melancholy reflections.
"This, too, is my work," said I; "this fair flower is blighted, and
withering by the contagious touch of my baneful hand. Good Heaven!
what a wretch am I! whoever loves me is rewarded by misery. And what
have I gained by this wide waste and devastation, which my wickedness
has spread around me? Happiness? no, no--that I have lost for ever.
Would that _my_ loss were all! would that comfort might visit the soul
of this fair creature and another. But I dare not--I cannot pray; I
am at enmity with God and man. Yet I will make an effort in favour of
this victim of my baseness. O God," continued I, "if the prayers of an
outcast like me can find acceptance, not for myself, but for her, I
ask that peace which the world cannot give; shower down thy blessings
upon her, alleviate her sorrows, and erase from her memory the
existence of such a being as myself. Let not my hateful image hang as
a blight upon her beauteous frame."
Emily resumed her book, when her father had ceased reading aloud; and
I saw her wipe a tear from her cheek.
Pages:
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511