They separated as they had never done before. In Emily’s bosom there was a dreary void--a vast blank-over which there went a low deep voice like a Spirit’s--a sound indistinct and strange, that spoke a language she knew not; but felt that it told of woe-guilt-doom. Her senses were stunned: the vitality of her feelings was numbed and torpid: the first herald of despair is insensibility. “Tomorrow then,” said Falkland--and his voice for the first time seemed strange and harsh to her--“we will fly hence for ever: meet me at daybreak--the carriage shall be in attendance--we cannot now unite too soon--would that at this very moment we were prepared!”--“To-morrow!” repeated Emily, “at daybreak!” and as she clung to him, he felt her shudder: “to-morrow-ay-to-morrow!--” one kiss--one embrace--one word--farewell--and they parted. Falkland returned to L------, a gloomy foreboding rested upon his mind: that dim and indescribable fear, which no earthly or human cause can explain--that shrinking within self--that vague terror of the future--that grappling, as it were, with some unknown shade--that wandering of the spirit--whither?--that cold, cold creeping dread--of what? As he entered the house, he met his confidential servant. He gave him orders respecting the flight of the morrow, and then retired into the chamber where he slept. It was an antique and large room: the wainscot was of oak; and one broad and high window looked over the expanse of country which stretched beneath. He sat himself by the casement in silence--he opened it: the dull air came over his forehead, not with a sense of freshness, but, like the parching atmosphere of the east, charged with a weight and fever that sank heavy into his soul. He turned:--he threw himself upon the bed, and placed his hands over his face. His thoughts were scattered into a thousand indistinct forms, but over all, there was one rapturous remembrance; and that was, that the morrow was to unite him for ever to her whose possession had only rendered her more dear. Meanwhile, the hours rolled on; and as he lay thus silent and still, the clock of the distant church struck with a distinct and solemn sound upon his ear. It was the half-hour after midnight. At that moment an icy thrill ran, slow and curdling, through his veins. His heart, as if with a presentiment of what was to follow, beat violently, and then stopped; life itself seemed ebbing away; cold drops stood upon his forehead; his eyelids trembled, and the balls reeled and glazed, like those of a dying man; a deadly fear gathered over him, so that his flesh quivered, and every hair in his head seemed instinct with a separate life, the very marrow of his bones crept, and his blood waxed thick and thick, as if stagnating into an ebbless and frozen substance. He started in a wild and unutterable terror. There stood, at the far end of the room, a dim and thin shape like moonlight, without outline or form; still, and indistinct, and shadowy. He gazed