1.
And wilt thou leave that happy home,
Where once it was so sweet to live?
Ah! think, before thou seek’st to roam,
What safer shelter Guilt can give!
2.
The Bird may rove, and still regain
With spotless wings, her wonted rest,
But home, once lost, is ne’er again
Restored to Woman’s erring breast!
3.
If wandering o’er a world of flowers,
The heart at times would ask repose;
But thou wouldst lose the only bowers
Of rest amid a world of woes.
4.
Recall thy youth’s unsullied vow
The past which on thee smile so fair;
Then turn from thence to picture now
The frowns thy future fate must wear!
5.
No hour, no hope, can bring relief
To her who hides a blighted name;
For hearts unbow’d by stormiest grief Will break beneath one breeze of shame!
6.
And when thy child’s deserted years
Amid life’s early woes are thrown,
Shall menial bosoms soothe the tears
That should be shed on thine alone?
7.
When on thy name his lips shall call,
(That tender name, the earliest taught!)
Thou wouldst not Shame and Sin were all
The memories link’d around its thought!
8.
If Sickness haunt his infant bed,
Ah! what could then replace thy care?
Could hireling steps as gently tread
As if a Mother’s soul was there?
9.
Enough! ‘tis not too late to shun
The bitter draught thyself wouldst fill;
The latest link is not undone
Thy bark is in the haven still.
10.
If doom’d to grief through life thou art,
‘Tis thine at least unstain’d to die!
Oh! better break at once thy heart
Than rend it from its holiest tie!
It were vain to attempt describing Emily’s feelings when the song ceased. The scene floated before her eyes indistinct and dark. The violence of the emotions she attempted to conceal pressed upon her almost to choking. She rose, looked at Falkland with one look of such anguish and despair that it froze his very heart, and left the room without uttering a word. A moment more—they heard a noise—a fall. They rushed out—Emily was stretched on the ground, apparently lifeless. She had broken a blood-vessel.
BOOK IV.
FROM MRS. ST. JOHN TO ERASMUS FALKLAND, ESQ.
At last I can give a more favourable answer to your letters. Emily is now quite out of danger. Since the day you forced yourself, with such a disinterested regard for her health and reputation, into her room, she grew (no thanks to your forbearance) gradually better. I trust that she will be able to see you in a few days. I hope this the more, because she now feels and decides that it will be for the last time. You have, it is true, injured her happiness for life her virtue, thank Heaven, is yet spared; and though you have made her wretched, you will never, I trust, succeed in making her despised.
You ask me, with some menacing and more complaint, why I am so bitter against you. I will tell you. I not only know Emily, and feel confident, from that knowledge, that nothing can recompense her for the reproaches of conscience, but I know you, and am convinced that you are the last man to render her happy. I set aside, for the moment, 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.