“Go, Godolphin--I repeat the prayer in all humbleness and sincerity--go to her whom thou lovest, perhaps as I loved thee; go, and in your happiness I shall feel at last something of happiness myself. We part for ever, but there is no unkindness between us; there is no reproach that one can make against the other. If I have sinned, it has been against Heaven and not thee; and thou--why, even against Heaven mine was all the fault--the rashness the madness! You will return to your native land; to that proud England, of which I have so often questioned you, and which, even in your answers, seems to me so cold and desolate a spot,--a land so hostile to love. There, in your new ties, you will learn new objects, and you will be too busy, and too happy, for your thoughts to turn to me again. Too happy?--No, I wish I could think you would be; but I whom you deny to possess sympathies with you--I have at least penetrated so far into your heart as to fear that, come what may, you will never find the happiness you ask. You exact too much, you dream too fondly, not to be discontented with the truth. What has happened to me must happen to my rival--will happen to you throughout life. Your being is in one world, your soul is in another. Alas! how foolishly I run on, as if seeking in your nature and not circumstances, the blow that separates us. “I shall hasten to a conclusion. I have gained a refuge in this convent; seek me not, follow me not, I implore, I adjure thee; it can serve no purpose. I would not see thee; the veil is already drawn between thy world and me, and it only remains, in kindness and in charity, to bid each other farewell. Farewell, then! I think I am now with thee; I think my lips have breathed aside thy long hair, and cling to thy fair temples with a sister’s---that word, at least, is left me--a sister’s kiss. As we stood together, at the grey dawn, when we last parted--as then, in sorrow and in tears, I hid my face in thy bosom--as then, unconscious of what was to come, I poured forth my assurances of faithful unswerving thought--as thrice thou didst tear thyself from me and didst thrice return--and as, through the comfortless mists of morn I gazed after thee, and fancied for hours that thy last words yet rang in my ear; so now, but with different feelings, I once more bid thee farewell--farewell for ever!” CHAPTER XLIV. GODOLPHIN. “No, signor, she will not see you!” “You have given my note--given that ring?” “I have, and she still refuses.” “Refuses?--and is that all the answer? no line to--to soften the reply?” “Signor, I have spoken all my message.” “Cruel, hard-hearted! May I call again, think you, with a better success?” “The convent, at stated times, is open to strangers, signor; but so far as the young signora is concerned I feel assured, from her manner, that your visits will be in vain.”