after I depart. I need not conjure you to look upon me as
one of whom all links that once existed between us are broken. Your
own delicacy will not allow you, I am convinced, to attempt to trace
me. It is far better for your peace that you should be ignorant of my
destination. You will not follow me, for when I bannish myself would
you nourish guilt by obtruding yourself upon me? You will not do this,
I know you will not. You must forget me and all the evil that I have
taught you. Cast off the only gift that I have bestowed upon you, your
grief, and rise from under my blighting influence as no flower so
sweet ever did rise from beneath so much evil.

"You will never hear from me again: receive these then as the last
words of mine that will ever reach you; and although I have forfeited
your filial love, yet regard them I conjure you as a father's command.
Resolutely shake of[f] the wretchedness that this first misfortune in
early life must occasion you. Bear boldly up against the storm:
continue wise and mild, but believe it, and indeed it is, your duty to
be happy. You are very young; let not this check for more than a
moment retard your glorious course; hold on, beloved one. The sun of
youth is not set for you; it will restore vigour and life to you; do
not resist with obstinate grief its beneficent influence, oh, my
child! bless me with the hope that I have not utterly destroyed you.

"Farewell, Mathilda. I go with the belief that I have your pardon.
Your gentle nature would not permit you to hate your greatest enemy
and though I be he, although I have rent happiness from your
grasp;[38] though I have passed over your young love and hopes as the
angel of destruction, finding beauty and joy, and leaving blight and
despair, yet you will forgive me, and with eyes overflowing with
tears I thank you; my beloved one, I accept your pardon with a
gratitude that will never die, and that will, indeed it will, outlive
guilt and remorse.

"Farewell for ever!"

The moment I finished this letter I ordered the carriage and prepared
to follow my father. The words of his letter by which he had dissuaded
me from this step were those that determined me. Why did he write
them? He must know that if I believed that his intention was merely to
absent himself from me that instead of opposing him it would be that
which I should myself require--or if he thought that any lurking
feeling, yet he could not think that, should lead me to him wo