Chapter 12

As I was perpetually haunted by these ideas, you may imagine that the
influence of Woodville's words was very temporary; and that although I
did not again accuse him of unkindness, yet I soon became as unhappy
as before. Soon after this incident we parted. He heard that his
mother was ill, and he hastened to her. He came to take leave of me,
and we walked together on the heath for the last time. He promised
that he would come and see me again; and bade me take cheer, and to
encourage what happy thoughts I could, untill time and fortitude
should overcome my misery, and I could again mingle in society.

"Above all other admonition on my part," he said, "cherish and follow
this one: do not despair. That is the most dangerous gulph on which
you perpetually totter; but you must reassure your steps, and take
hope to guide you.[74] Hope, and your wounds will be already half
healed: but if you obstinately despair, there never more will be
comfort for you. Believe me, my dearest friend, that there is a joy
that the sun and earth and all its beauties can bestow that you will
one day feel. The refreshing bliss of Love will again visit your
heart, and undo the spell that binds you to woe, untill you wonder how
your eyes could be closed in the long night that burthens you. I dare
not hope that I have inspired you with sufficient interest that the
thought of me, and the affection that I shall ever bear you, will
soften your melancholy and decrease the bitterness of your tears. But
if my friendship can make you look on life with less disgust, beware
how you injure it with suspicion. Love is a delicate sprite[75] and
easily hurt by rough jealousy. Guard, I entreat you, a firm persuasion
of my sincerity in the inmost recesses of your heart out of the reach
of the casual winds that may disturb its surface. Your temper is made
unequal by suffering, and the tenor of your mind is, I fear, sometimes
shaken by unworthy causes; but let your confidence in my sympathy and
love be deeper far, and incapable of being reached by these agitations
that come and go, and if they touch not your affections leave you
uninjured."

These were some of Woodville's last lessons. I wept as I listened to
him; and after we had taken an affectionate farewell, I followed him
far with my eyes until they saw the last of my earthly comforter. I
had insisted on accompanying him across the heath towards the town
where he dwelt: the sun was yet high when he left me, and I turned my
steps towards my cottage. It was at the latter end of the month of
September when the nights have become chill. But the weather was
serene, and as I walked on I fell into no unpleasing reveries. I
thought of Woodville with gratitude and kindness and did