I felt that I had a clear right to boast of constancy; nor were the flirtations of Halifax and Quebec at all incompatible with such a declaration.  The fair sex will start at this proposition; but it is nevertheless true.  Emily was to me what the Dutchman’s best anchor was to him—­he kept it at home, for fear of losing it.  He used other anchors in different ports, that answered the purpose tolerably well; but this best bower he always intended to ride by in the Nieu deep, when he had escaped all the dangers and quicksands of foreign shores:  such was Emily to me.  I thought of her when in the very jaws of the shark; I thought of her when I mounted the rigging in the hurricane; I thought of her when bored and tormented to madness by the old passing captains; all, all I might gain in renown was for her.  Why, then, traitor like, did I deny her?  For no other reason that I can devise than that endless love of plot and deceit which had “grown with my growth.”

Madame de Stael has pronounced love to be an episode in a man’s life; and so far it is true.  There are as many episodes in life as there are in novels and romances; but in neither case do they destroy the general plot of the history, although they may, for the time, distract or divert our attention.  Here, then, is the distinction between passion and love.  I felt a passion for Eugenia, love for Emily.  And why?  Because although it was through my own persuasions and entreaties that her scruples had been overcome; although it was through her affection for me which would not allow her to refuse me any demand, even to the sacrifice of herself, that Eugenia had fallen, still, in the eyes of society, she had fallen; and I did not offer up a pure and holy love to that which was not accounted pure.  In this I gave way, ungratefully, to the heartless casuistry of the world.  But Emily, enshrined in modesty, with every talent, equal, if not superior charms, defended by rank and connection, was a flower perpetually blooming on the stem of virtue, that it would have amounted to sacrilege to attempt to have plucked; and the attempt itself would have savoured of insanity, from the utter hopelessness of success.  Every sentiment connected with her was pure, from mere selfishness.  Not for worlds would I have injured her; because in destroying her peace of mind, my own would have fled for ever.  When I contemplated our final union, I blushed for my own unworthiness; and looked forward to the day when, by repentance and amendment, I might be deemed worthy to lead her to the altar.

I had not time to pursue these reflections any farther.  Emily heard my appeal, and rising from her seat in the most dignified manner, addressed me in the commanding language of conscious virtue and injured innocence.

“Sir,” said she, “I trust I am too honest to deceive you, or any one; nor have I done that of which I need be ashamed.  Whatever reasons I may have to repent of my misplaced confidence, I will make no secret of that which now compels me to change my opinion of you; you will find them amply detailed in this paper,” at the same time putting into my hand a letter from my father to Mr Somerville.