Evelina, Or, the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World Part 82

"In a very short time, then," said Lord Orville, "I hope you will yourself introduce her, and that we shall have the pleasure of wis.h.i.+ng you both joy:-allow me, my Evelina, to say we, and permit me, in your name, as well as my own, to entreat that the first guests we shall have the happiness of receiving may be Mr. and Mrs. Macartney."

A servant then came to beg I would walk up stairs.

I besought Lord Orville to accompany me; but he feared the displeasure of Sir John, who had desired to see me alone. He led me, however, to the foot of the stairs, and made the kindest efforts to give me courage: but indeed he did not succeed; for the interview appeared to me in all its terrors, and left me no feeling but apprehension.

The moment I reached the landing-place, the drawing-room door was opened: and my father, with a voice of kindness, called out, "My child, is it you?"

"Yes, Sir," cried I, springing forward, and kneeling at his feet, "it is your child, if you will own her!"

He knelt by my side, and, folding me in his arms, "Own thee,"

repeated he, "yes, my poor girl, and Heaven knows with what bitter contrition!" Then, raising both himself and me, he brought me into the drawing-room, shut the door, and took me to the window; where, looking at me with great earnestness, "Poor unhappy Caroline!" cried he; and, to my inexpressible concern, he burst into tears. Need I tell you, my dear Sir, how mine flowed at the sight?

I would again have embraced his knees; but, hurrying from me, he flung himself upon a sofa, and, leaning his face on his arms, seemed for some time absorbed in bitterness of grief.

I ventured not to interrupt a sorrow I so much respected; but waited in silence, and at a distance, till he recovered from its violence. But then it seemed in a moment to give way to a kind of frantic fury; for starting suddenly, with a sternness which at once surprised and frightened me, "Child," cried he, "hast thou yet sufficiently humbled thy father?-if thou hast, be contented with this proof of my weakness, and no longer force thyself into my presence!"

Thunderstruck by a command so unexpected, I stood still and speechless, and doubted whether my own ears did not deceive me.

"Oh go, go!" cried he, pa.s.sionately; "in pity-in compa.s.sion,-if thou valuest my senses, leave me,-and for ever!"

"I will, I will," cried I, greatly terrified; and I moved hastily towards the door: yet, stopping when I reached it, and, almost involuntarily, dropping on my knees, "Vouchsafe," cried I, "Oh, Sir, vouchsafe but once to bless your daughter, and her sight shall never more offend you!"

"Alas," cried he, in a softened voice, "I am not worthy to bless thee!-I am not worthy to call thee daughter!-I am not worthy that the fair light of Heaven should visit my eyes!-Oh G.o.d! that I could but call back the time ere thou wast born,-or else bury its remembrance in eternal oblivion!"

"Would to Heaven," cried I, "that the sight of me were less terrible to you!

that, instead of irritating, I could soothe your sorrows!-Oh Sir, how thankfully would I then prove my duty, even at the hazard of my life!"

"Are you so kind?" cried he, gently; "come hither, child;-rise, Evelina:-Alas, it is for me to kneel,-not you;-and I would kneel,-I would crawl upon the earth,-I would kiss the dust,-could I, by such submission, obtain the forgiveness of the representative of the most injured of women!"

"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 G.o.d," 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 s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 for ever!" 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 stedfastly 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 a.s.sist 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-"