Friday.--Since I wrote yesterday in these pages the narrative of our
escape, I have done nothing but think over those moments, too dangerous
because too dear; but at last I have steeled my heart--I have yielded to
my own weakness too long--I shudder at the abyss from which I have
escaped. I can yet fly. He will come here to-day--he shall receive my
farewell.
Saturday morning, four o'clock.--I have sat in this room alone since
eleven o'clock. I cannot give vent to my feelings; they seem as if
crushed by some load from which it is impossible to rise. "He is gone,
and for ever!" I sit repeating those words to myself, scarcely conscious
of their meaning. Alas! when to-morrow comes, and the next day, and the
next, and yet I see him not, I shall awaken, indeed, to all the agony of
my loss! He came here--he saw me alone--he implored me to fly. I did
not dare to meet his eyes; I hardened my heart against his voice. I knew
the part I was to take--I have adopted it; but what struggles, what
misery, has it not occasioned me! Who could have thought it had been so
hard to be virtuous! His eloquence drove me from one defence to another,
and then I had none but his mercy. I opened my heart--I showed him its
weakness--I implored his forbearance. My tears, my anguish, convinced
him of my sincerity. We have parted in bitterness, but, thank Heaven,
not in guilt! He has entreated permission to write to me. How could I
refuse him? Yet I may not--cannot-write to him again! How could, I
indeed, suffer my heart to pour forth one of its feelings in reply? for
would there be one word of regret, or one term of endearment, which my
inmost soul would not echo?
Sunday.--Yes, that day--but I must not think of this; my very religion I
dare not indulge. Oh God! how wretched I am! His visit was always the
great aera in the clay; it employed all my hopes till he came, and all my
memory when he was gone. I sit now and look at the place he used to
fill, till I feel the tears rolling silently down my cheek: they come
without an effort--they depart without relief.
Monday.--Henry asked me where Mr. Falkland was gone; I stooped down to
hide my confusion. When shall I hear from him? To-morrow? Oh that it
were come! I have placed the clock before me, and I actually count the
minutes. He left a book here; it is a volume of "Melmoth." I have read
over every word of it, and whenever I have come to a pencil-mark by him,
I have paused to dream over that varying and eloquent countenance, the
low soft tone of that tender voice, till the book has fallen from my
hands, and I have started to find the utterness of my desolation!