ent, all rules of
religion and morality in general, and speak to you (to use the cant
and abused phrase) "without prejudice" as to the particular instance.
Emily's nature is soft and susceptible, yours fickle and wayward in
the extreme. The smallest change or caprice in you, which would not be
noticed by a mind less delicate, would wound her to the heart. You
know that the very softness of her character arises from its want of
strength. Consider, for a moment, if she could bear the humiliation and
disgrace which visit so heavily the offences of an English wife? She has
been brought up in the strictest notions of morality; and, in a mind,
not naturally strong, nothing can efface the first impressions of
education. She is not--indeed she is not--fit for a life of sorrow or
degradation. In another character, another line of conduct might be
desirable; but with regard to her, pause, Falkland, I beseech you,
before you attempt again to destroy her for ever. I have said all.
Farewell.

Your, and above all, Emily's friend.

FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ., TO LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE.

You will see me, Emily, now that you are recovered sufficiently to do so
without danger. I do not ask this as a favour. If my love has deserved,
anything from yours, if past recollections give me any claim over you,
if my nature has not forfeited the spell which it formerly possessed
upon your own, I demand it as a right.

The bearer waits for your answer.

FROM LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE TO ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ.

See you, Falkland! Can you doubt it? Can you think for a moment that
your commands can ever cease to become a law to me? Come here whenever
you please. If, during my illness, they have prevented it, it was
without my knowledge. I await you; but I own that this interview will be
the last, if I can claim anything from your mercy.

FROM ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ., TO LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE.

I have seen you, Emily, and for the last time! My eyes are dry--my hand
does not tremble. I live, move, breathe, as before--and yet I have seen
you for the last time! You told me--even while you leaned on my bosom,
even while your lip pressed mine--you told me (and I saw your sincerity)
to spare you, and to see you no more. You told me you had no longer
any will, any fate of your own; that you would, if I still continued to
desire it, leave friends, home, honour, for me; but you did not disguise
from me that you would, in so doing, leave happines