["]But I am afraid that I wander from my purpose.  I must be more brief for night draws on apace and all my hours in this house are counted.  Well, we removed to London, and still I felt only the peace of sinless passion.  You were ever with me, and I desired no more than to gaze on your countenance, and to know that I was all the world to you; I was lapped in a fool’s paradise of enjoyment and security.  Was my love blamable?  If it was I was ignorant of it; I desired only that which I possessed, and if I enjoyed from your looks, and words, and most innocent caresses a rapture usually excluded from the feelings of a parent towards his child, yet no uneasiness, no wish, no casual idea awoke me to a sense of guilt.  I loved you as a human father might be supposed to love a daughter borne to him by a heavenly mother; as Anchises might have regarded the child of Venus if the sex had been changed; love mingled with respect and adoration.  Perhaps also my passion was lulled to content by the deep and exclusive affection you felt for me.

“But when I saw you become the object of another’s love; when I imagined that you might be loved otherwise than as a sacred type and image of loveliness and excellence; or that you might love another with a more ardent affection than that which you bore to me, then the fiend awoke within me; I dismissed your lover; and from that moment I have known no peace.  I have sought in vain for sleep and rest; my lids refused to close, and my blood was for ever in a tumult.  I awoke to a new life as one who dies in hope might wake in Hell.  I will not sully your imagination by recounting my combats, my self-anger and my despair.  Let a veil be drawn over the unimaginable sensations of a guilty father; the secrets of so agonized a heart may not be made vulgar.  All was uproar, crime, remorse and hate, yet still the tenderest love; and what first awoke me to the firm resolve of conquering my passion and of restoring her father to my child was the sight of your bitter and sympathizing sorrows.  It was this that led me here:  I thought that if I could again awaken in my heart the grief I had felt at the loss of your mother, and the many associations with her memory which had been laid to sleep for seventeen years, that all love for her child would become extinct.  In a fit of heroism I determined to go alone; to quit you, the life of my life, and not to see you again untill I might guiltlessly.  But it would not do:  I rated my fortitude too high, or my love too low.  I should certainly have died if you had not hastened to me.  Would that I had been indeed extinguished!

“And now, Mathilda I must make you my last confession.  I have been miserably mistaken in imagining that I could conquer my love for you; I never can.  The sight of this house, these fields and woods which my first love inhabited seems to have encreased it:  in my madness I dared say to myself—­Diana died to give her birth; her mother’s spirit was transferred into her frame, and she ought to be as Diana to me.[37] With every effort to cast it off, this love clings closer, this guilty love more unnatural than hate, that withers your hopes and destroys me for ever.