“Oh, Sir,” exclaimed I, “that you could but read my heart!—that you could but see the filial tenderness and concern with which it overflows!—you would not then talk thus—you would not then banish me your presence, and exclude me from your affection!”
“Good God,” cried he, “is it then possible that you do not hate me?—Can the child of the wronged Caroline look at—and not execrate me? Wast thou not born to abhor, and bred to curse me? Did not thy mother bequeath thee her blessing on condition that thou should’st detest and avoid me?”
“Oh no, no, no!” cried I; “think not so unkindly of her, nor so hardly of me.” I then took from my pocketbook her last letter; and, pressing it to my lips, with a trembling hand, and still upon my knees, I held it out to him.
Hastily snatching it from me, “Great Heaven!” cried he, “ ’tis her writing—Whence comes this?—who gave it you—why had I it not sooner?”
I made no answer; his vehemence intimidated me, and I ventured not to move from the suppliant posture in which I had put myself.
He went from me to the window, where his eyes were for some time rivetted upon the direction of the letter, though his hand shook so violently he could hardly hold it. Then, bringing it to me, “Open it,”—cried he—“for I cannot!”
I had myself hardly strength to obey him: but when I had, he took it back, and walked hastily up and down the room, as if dreading to read it. At length, turning to me, “Do you know,” cried he, “its contents?”
“No, Sir,” answered I, “it has never been unsealed.”
He then again went to the window, and began reading. Having hastily run it over, he cast up his eyes with a look of desperation; the letter fell from his hand, and he exclaimed, “Yes! thou art sainted!—thou art blessed!—and I am cursed forever!” He continued some time fixed in this melancholy position; after which, casting himself with violence upon the ground, “Oh wretch,” cried he, “unworthy life and light, in what dungeon canst thou hide thy head?”
I could restrain myself no longer; I rose and went to him; I did not dare speak; but, with pity and concern unutterable, I wept and hung over him.
Soon after, starting up, he again seized the letter, exclaiming, “Acknowledge thee, Caroline!—yes, with my heart’s best blood would I acknowledge thee!—Oh that thou could’st witness the agony of my soul!—Ten thousand daggers could not have wounded me like this letter!”
Then, after again reading it, “Evelina,” he cried, “she charges me to receive thee;—wilt thou, in obedience to her will, own for thy father the destroyer of thy mother?”
What a dreadful question!—I shuddered, but could not speak.
“To clear her fame, and receive her child,” continued he, looking steadfastly at the letter, “are the conditions upon which she leaves me her forgiveness: her fame I have already cleared;—and Oh, how willingly would I take her child to my bosom, fold her to my heart—call upon her to mitigate my anguish, and pour the balm of comfort on my wounds, were I not conscious I deserve not to receive it, and that all my affliction is the result of my own guilt!”
It was in vain I attempted to speak; horror and grief took from me all power of utterance.
He then read aloud from the letter, “Look not like thy unfortunate mother!” “Sweet soul, with what bitterness of spirit hast thou written!—Come hither, Evelina: Gracious Heaven! (looking earnestly at me) never was likeness more striking!—the eyes—the face—the form—Oh, my child, my child!” Imagine, Sir—for I can never describe my feelings, when I saw him sink upon his knees before me! “Oh, dear resemblance of thy murdered mother!—Oh, all that remains of the most injured of women! behold thy father at thy feet!—bending thus lowly to implore you would not hate him.—Oh, then, thou representative of my departed wife, speak to me in her name, and say that the remorse which tears my soul tortures me not in vain!”
“Oh, rise, rise, my beloved father,” cried I, attempting to assist him; “I cannot bear to see you thus; reverse not the law of nature; rise yourself, and bless your kneeling daughter!”
“May Heaven bless thee, my child!—” cried he, “for I dare not.” He then rose; and, embracing me most affectionately, added, “I see, I see that thou art all kindness, softness, and tenderness; I need not have feared thee, thou art all the fondest father could wish, and I will try to frame my mind to less painful sensations at thy sight. Perhaps the time may come, when I may know the comfort of such a daughter;—at present I am only fit to be alone: dreadful as are my reflections, they ought merely to torment myself.—Adieu, my child;—be not angry—I cannot stay with thee;—Oh, Evelina! thy countenance is a dagger to my heart!—just so thy mother looked—just so—”
Tears and sighs seemed to choak him;—and, waving his hand, he would have left me;—but, clinging to him, “Oh, Sir,” cried I, “will you so soon abandon me?—am I again an orphan!—Oh, my dear, my long-lost father, leave me not, I beseech you! take pity on your child, and rob her not of the parent she so fondly hoped would cherish her!”
“You know not what you ask,” cried he; “the emotions which now rend my soul are more than my reason can endure; suffer me then, to leave you;—impute it not to unkindness, but think of me as well as thou canst. Lord Orville has behaved nobly;—I believe he will make thee happy.” Then, again embracing me, “God bless thee, my dear child,” cried he, “God bless thee, my Evelina!—endeavour to love—at least not to hate me—and to make me an interest in thy filial bosom, by thinking of me as thy father.”
I could not speak; I kissed his hands on my knees: and then, with yet more emotion,
