write to you at night. It is then, my own love, that my imagination can
be the more readily transport me to you: it is then that my spirit holds
with you a more tender and undivided commune. In the day the world can
force itself upon my thoughts, and its trifles usurp the place which "I
love to keep for only thee and Heaven;" but in the night all things
recall you the more vividly: the stillness of the gentle skies,--the
blandness of the unbroken air,--the stars, so holy in their loveliness,
all speak and breathe to me of you. I think your hand is clasped in
mine; and I again drink the low music of your voice, and imbibe again in
the air the breath which has been perfumed by your lips. You seem to
stand in my lonely chamber in the light and stillness of a spirit, who
has wandered on earth to teach us the love which is felt in Heaven.

I cannot, believe me, I cannot endure this separation long; it must be
more or less. You must be mine for ever, or our parting must be without
a mitigation, which is rather a cruelty than a relief. If you will not
accompany me, I will leave this country alone. I must not wean myself
from your image by degrees, but break from the enchantment at once. And
when Emily, I am once more upon the world, when no tidings of my fate
shall reach your ear, and all its power of alienation be left to the
progress of time--then, when you will at last have forgotten me, when
your peace of mind will be restored, and, having no struggles of
conscience to undergo, you will have no remorse to endure; then, Emily,
when we are indeed divided, let the scene which has witnessed our
passion, the letters which have recorded my vow, the evil we have
suffered, and the temptation we have overcome; let these in our old age
be remembered, and in declaring to Heaven that we were innocent, add
also--that, we loved.