I agreed to this.  “But,” said I, “as the war with France is now over, and that with America will be terminated no doubt very shortly, I have no wish to put you to the expense, or myself to the trouble, of fitting out a sloop of war in time of peace, to be a pleasure-yacht for great lords and ladies, and myself to be neither more or less than a maitre d’hotel:  and, after having spent your money and mine, and exhausted all my civilities, to receive no thanks, and hear that I am esteemed at Almack’s only ‘a tolerable sea brute enough.’  A ship, therefore,” continued I, “I will not have; and as I think the continent holds out some novelty at least, I will, with your consent, set off.”

This point being settled, I told Clara of it.  The poor girl’s grief was immoderate.  “My dearest brother, I shall lose you, and be left alone in the world.  Your impetuous and unruly heart is not in a state to be trusted among the gay and frivolous French.  You will be at sea without your compass—­you have thrown religion overboard—­and what is to guide you in the hour of trial?”

“Fear not, dear Clara,” said I; “my own energies will always extricate me from the dangers you apprehend.”

“Alas! it is these very energies which I dread,” said Clara; “but I trust that all will be for the best.  Accept,” said she, “of this little book from poor broken-hearted Clara; and, if you love her, look at it sometimes.”

I took the book, and embracing her affectionately, assured her, that for her sake I would read it.

When I had completed my arrangements for my foreign tour, I determined to take one last look at ——­ Hall before I left England.  I set off unknown to my family; and contrived to be near the boundaries of the park by dusk.  I desired the postboy to stop half a mile from the house, and to wait my return.  I cleared the paling; and, avoiding the direct road, came up to the house.  The room usually occupied by the family was on the ground floor, and I cautiously approached the window.  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.”