“They never deceived me, Emily. I looked upon them only as the tokens of your friendship, of your sisterly regard. No more.”
She gazed at him in wondering awe. Suddenly a wild light broke upon her face, and she clasped her hands.
“Oh, man without vanity!” she passionately cried, “simple, honorable heart—nature unspotted by the world, and knowing nothing base—how am I worthy to live in your presence! The arts that would have flattered the self-love of the moths that flutter round me, were powerless on you, and untempted, unelated, unsuspecting, you took my treacherous homage as only the token of the love of a sister and a friend!”
The words trembled away in a rapture of fervor. Ceasing, her head sank upon her bosom, and her face was wet with a solemn rain of tears. Moved beyond speech, and sadly understanding all, Harrington stood with his flushed face mute, a sweet thrill melting through his frame, and his eyes were dim.
“It is over,” she sorrowfully faltered. “The worst is over. There is more to be said—much more, but I cannot say it now. Not now—not now.”
She stood in deep dejection, her head bowed, her hands clasped and drooping, and her eyelids almost closed.
“I am very humble,” she slowly murmured, in a voice like the dropping of tears. “I stand in the Valley of Humiliation, and the Valley of the Shadow, lies before me. Alone, I enter it—forsaken—alone.”
He heard the words, mournful as the sound of a funeral bell, and he strove to speak, but could not shape his lips to language that did not seem to profane the sanctity of her sorrow. Silently he held out his arms to her.
“O my brother!” She glided near, and laid her head upon his breast, and her voice was weak and low. “Let me rest here a little. Do not speak to me. I am very weary. Let me rest here a little while—let me dream of my childhood—of the old sweet days that are gone—a little while before I go.”