of such an act. I
am now appealing to your generosity--your disinterestedness--your
magnanimity (and you ought to be proud to possess these virtues)--to
all those principles that honor and dignify our nature, and render man a
great example to his kind. My lord, I am very unhappy--I am miserable--I
am wretched; so completely borne down by suffering that life is only a
burden, which I will not be able long to bear; and you, my lord, are the
cause of all this anguish and agony."

"Upon my honor, Miss Gourlay, I am very much concerned to hear it. I
would rather the case were otherwise, I assure you. Anything that I can
do, I needn't say, I shall be most happy to do; but proceed, pray."

"My lord, I throw myself upon your generosity; do you possess it? Upon
your feeling as a man, upon your honor as a gentleman. I implore, I
entreat you, not to press this unhappy engagement. I implore you for my
sake, for the sake of humanity, for the sake of God; and if that will
not weigh with you, then I ask it for the sake of your own honor,
which will be tarnished by pressing it on. I have already said that you
possess not my affections, and that to a man of honor and spirit ought
to be sufficient; but I will go farther, and say, that if there be one
man living against a union with whom I entertain a stronger and more
unconquerable aversion than another, you are that man."

"But you know, Miss Gourlay, if I may interrupt you for a moment, that
that fact completely falls into my principles. There is only one other
circumstance wanting to make the thing complete; but perhaps you
will come to it; at least I hope so. Pray, proceed, madam; I am all
attention."

"Yes," she replied, "I shall proceed; because I would not that my
conscience should hereafter reproach me for having left anything undone
to escape this misery. My lord, I implore you to spare me; force me not
over the brow of this dreadful precipice; have compassion on me--have
generosity--act with honor."

"I would crown you with honor, if I could, Miss Gourlay."

"You are about to crown me with fire, my lord; to wring my spirit with
torture; to drive me into distraction--despair--madness. But you will
not do so. You know that I cannot love you. I am not to blame for this;
our affections are not always under our own control. Have pity on me,
then, Lord Dunroe. Go to my father, and tell him that you will not be
a consenting party to my misery--and accessory to my death. Say what